And Proserpine, still fragrant of the air And upper brightness, bore him children -- him Whose heart, not knowing Sicily, was bare Of songs, whose sunless mouth was dumb. That grim Illimitable cold was alien Always; and always, hopeful of the song Of birds, she leaned and thought to find again Those blooms that watch the tearless stars so long They weep. When to her kingdom came the dead, Still glistening with tears and asphodel, Forgetting all save home, their eyes she read, Wherein the sweet, far earth seemed yet to dwell. . . . . . Behold, the blue South in our hearts like wine -- But Pluto's mouth, O Mother Proserpine! |