That sighed its twilight of sorrows into the sod:
For the heart of the lover you wreathed of old was the heart of the Singing God.
Distantly out of the Era of Gold that dims the glass of to-day
You shine in the shape of the beautiful boy the Great Ones adored and destroyed:
The wind in a passion of longing arose from his jealous unsatisfied void
And the sun came down in a passion of worship to play—
And the soul of the form their passions made dust is the flower of the world to-day.
Oh measureless beauty conceived of the sorrow and love of the Lord of Light!
Oh swift brief beauty that died before your Spring accomplished its prime!
Divinest death for you, the divinely-beloved, was it less than sublime?—