CRY OF THE NYMPH TO EROS
Where the woods are dark and the stream runs clear in the dark,
I prayed to thy mother and planted the seeds of her flowers,
And smiled at the planting and wept at the planting. Oh, violets
Ye are dead and your whiteness, your sweetness, availed not. Thy mother
Is cruel. Her flowers lie dead at the steps of her altar,
The dove's wings, the white doves I brought to thy mother in worship;Page 96
And I said, she will laugh for joy of my doves.
Of dead wings. She laughed not nor looked.
My doves are dead,
Are dead at the steps of her altar. Thy mother is cruel