POOR jealous Procris in the Cretan wood, Slain by the very hand of love at last' This way was best! the cordial bath of blood, The long love-sickness past. The brown fauns gather round with piteous cries; They mourn her beauty, guess not at her woe; They find no Eos graven on those eyes Whence tears no longer flow. Her griefs, her frailties from the flowery turf Exhaled, are as the dews of yesterday; The grim ship hurrying through the Phocian surf, The exile on her way, The cruel goddess, and the twofold test, The breaking heart of hate, the poisoned hours, -- All these have faded into utter rest Among the Cretan flowers. Ah! wrap her body in its fluttering lawns! 'Tis Cephalus' own shaft that hath made cease The passion of her breast; hush, foolish fauns, Hush! for her end was peace. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RIGHT TO GRIEF by CARL SANDBURG CENTRAL PARK AT DUSK by SARA TEASDALE EPITAPH FOR SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, AT ST. PAUL'S WITHOUT A MONUMENT ... by EDWARD HERBERT THE HOLY SCRIPTURES (1) by GEORGE HERBERT THIS COMPOST: 1. by WALT WHITMAN TO THINK OF TIME by WALT WHITMAN |