Ghost moths hover over asphodel;
Shades, once Laïs' peers
Drift past us;
The mist is grey.
Far over us
The white wave-crests flash in the sun;
The sea-girls lie upon hot, weedy rocks.
Now the Maid returns to us
With fragrance of the world
And of the hours of gods.
On earth
Apple-trees, weighted with red fruit,
Streams, passing through the corn lands,
Hear laughter.
We pluck the asphodel,
Yet we weave no crowns
For we have no vines;
No one speaks here;
No one kisses.
H. D.
SEA GODS
I
They say there is no hope—
Sand—drift—rocks—rubble of the sea—
The broken hulk of a ship,
Hung with shreds of rope,
Pallid under the cracked pitch.
They say there is no hope
To conjure you—
No whip of the tongue to anger you—
No hate of words
You must rise to refute.
They say you are twisted by the sea,
You are cut apart
By wave-break upon wave-break,
That you are misshapen by the sharp rocks,
Broken by the rasp and after-rasp.