A wild spring upland all this charmed page, Where, in the early dawn, the maenads rage, Mad, chaste, and lovely! This, a darker spot Where lone Antigone bewails her lot....
Fades the great pyramid, the blank walls fade! And thou, immortal boy, dost walk with me Along that grove from out whose deeper shade The nightingale sings living ecstasy. ...
Oh no, not this! This is a Roman face, Superb, composed, with such a matron grace As that of great Cornelia, never thee. Young princess of an ancient poetry!
Demeter? 'Tis a name! For in thy face A myriad women find their mourning-place! Thou, sitting lonely on the wayside stone, O pagan mother, thou art not alone! ...
Lord of all strength, behold, I am but frail! Lord of all harvest, few the grapes and pale Allotted for my wine-press! Thou, Lord, Who boldest in thy gift the tempered sword....