Sweet is the fragrance of flowers, and soft are the wings of the dove,
And no goodlier gift is there given than the dower of brotherly love;
But you, O May-Day Medusa, whose glance makes the heart turn cold,
Art a bitter Goddess to follow, a terrible Queen to behold.
We are sick of spouting—the words burn deep and chafe: we are fain,
To rest a little from clap-trap, and probe the wild promise of gain.
For new gods we know not of are acclaimed by all babbledom's breath,
And they promise us love-inspired life—by the red road of hatred and death.
The gods, dethroned and deceased, cast forth—so the chatterers say—
Are banished with Flora and Pan, and behold our new Queen of the May!