Persephone, Persephone!

Still I fancy I can see

Her, as white and still she lies:

Death has woo'd and won his prize.

White the blossoms at her breast;

White and still her face at rest;

[14]

White the moonbeams round her head.

Ah! the wintry years have fled;

Comfort lent and patience sent,

And my grief is easier borne.

Persephone, Persephone!

Still in dreams thou com'st to me;

Every night art at my side,

Half my bride, and half Death's bride!

Golden blossoms at thy breast;

Golden hair that shames the West;

Golden sunlight circling thee!

Half of gold the lone years flee:

Night is glad, though day is sad,

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