To the end of the trail / Richard Hovey [electronic text]

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And now the glad god feels the grapes of joyance Bursting upon the palate of his soul. A storm-like exultation, a mad buoyance Sweeps all the cords of life from his control. But ere his lips touch hers, she gives one shrill Cry, and is heard; and the captor whose swift arms close About her like the dark, Feels the throbs subside and the limbs grow still And the smooth breasts stiffen that fell and rose, And the ripe mouth roughen to bitter bark Under the pressure of lips fierce for a kiss. "Ai, ai, me wretched!" the god mourns in his woe, "Ah, the sweet eyes closed and the fleet limbs fettered! And oh, The fair life gone amiss! Ah, the beauty! the grace! Ah, the delight of it! The fleet light flash of her flying feet! Never shall sight of it Now flush my face In near land or far land. Yet not wholly I lose thee, my sweet! On my brow, a dear burden, Thy leaves shall be laid, my grief and my garland. For loss of love I am given a barren guerdon —

An austere crown for raptures hymeneal. And ever henceforth he whom my lovers laud, Shall wear this sacred leaf — The Daphne of his unattained Ideal Imperishably laurelled in his hair. And now I go. My feet have trod A weary way. I see Fate does not spare Even to the Immortals failure and grief. I also have my duties, though a god."