November's day, dark, leaden, lowering,—
Grey purple shadows fading on the hills;
Dreary and desolate the far expanse
And gloomy sameness of the open plain.
A peasant woman, in white wimpled hood,
White vest, and scarlet petticoat, surveys
The meadow, with rough hands crossed on her breast.
A shining, shimmering, gracious, golden day;
The sated summer's all-pervading hush;
Warm luscious tints, glowing in earth and sky.
On a low mossy bank, a little child,
His golden curls twined in the reedy grass,
Clutching within his tear-stained feverish hands
The yellow blossoms of the Celandine,
Sobs out his heart in passionate childish grief.
EURYDICE.
OH come, Eurydice!
The Stygian deeps are past
Well-nigh; the light dawns fast.
Oh come, Eurydice!
The gods have heard my song!
My love's despairing cry
Filled hell with melody,—
And the gods heard my song.
I knew no life but thee;
Persephone was moved;
She, too, hath lived, hath loved;
She saw I lived for thee.
I may not look on thee,
Such was the gods' decree;—
Till sun and earth we see
No kiss, no smile for thee!
The way is rough, is hard;
I cannot hear thy feet
Swift following; speak, my Sweet,—
Is the way rough and hard?