The gods upon the hills no more are seen,

Couched on the virginal green,

No more their cry upon the silence grieves,

The shadow of dark leaves.

The blazonry of Spring must now abate,

Without the purple state

Of Aphrodite, amorous and frail,

Cinctured with lilies pale.

She who was love and every man’s desire,

Now only can inspire,

The mutual love of mortals, and alone

Like wind her plaints are blown.

About the unregarding world her hands

Yearn forth across the lands

Once passionate with her lovers, but in vain,

They will not come again!

She who was Aphrodite, tho’ she gives

Love to each heart that lives,

Gives and receives not. She, of love the breath,

Doomed now with utter death.