  Eternal pouring in her lonely path The wells of sorrow lay. I see her now,— Methinks I see her now,—an awful shape Guiding her dragon-team in frenzied search From Argive lands unto the jeweled shores Of the remotest Ind where Usha's hand Soothed her grief-shadowed brow with kindly touch, And Savitar breathed sympathy from the skies O'er uttermost regions of the faneless Brahm. In melancholy search I see her roam The Himalayas,—world-dividing,—pale 'Mid ice and snow, through mists and night and storm; Then back again with that wild mother woe Fueling the anguished fire of her eyes,— Back where old Atlas groans beneath the world, And the Cimmerian twilight weighs the soul. Deep was her sleep in Persia's haunted vales, Where many a languid Philomela moaned Her heart to rest with heartbreak melody. I see her near Ionia's swelling seas Cull from the sands a labyrinthine shell, Hollowing its spiral murmur to her ear,— A pearly mouth against an ear of pearl,— In hope some message of Persephone It might impart; then finding all in vain, In anguish and despair, cast it afar, To watch the salt-spray flash, like some soft plume Dropped from the wings of Eros, where it fell. I see her take a flute of coral from A listening Triton; and on Ithakan rocks High seated at the starry close of day,— When sad the moon rose from her salty couch, Gazing with sorrow on her face of sorrow,— Pipe pensive airs,—plaintive as Sirens sing In streaming caves beneath the ocean wall,— Till hoar Poseidon cleared his wrinkled front And stilled his surgy clamors to a sigh. This do I see, and more: Behold, with fear! I see her 'mid the lonely groves of Crete, Frighten the dun deer from th' o'ervaulted green Of thickest boscage, searching every covert With terror of her torches and her wail, "Persephone! Persephone!" till the pines Of mist-swathed Dicte shuddered through their miles, The panther roared down in the stream-mad gorge, And Echo shrieked from chasm to answering chasm, "Persephone!" bewildered with her woe: As wild as when she echoed the despair, Dishevel-haired, of maidens, wailing borne,— Athenian tribute,—to that King of Crete, Great Minos, when the Minotaur they saw Grim, crouching in his labyrinth of stone. |
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