Vague things shall move them and strange voices steal
Through sad, bud-scented April eves to them.
Round them shall fall a glory not of earth,
As now o’er these Sicilian meadows fall
Dim memories that come I know not whence.
In lands I know not of some sorrowing girl
Shall faintly breathe: “I am Persephone
On such a day!” and through the world shall run
The immemorial rapture and the pangs,
And pale-eyed ghosts shall creep out to the light