Ah, small black head,

ah, the purple ivy bush,

ah, berries that shook and spilt

on the form beneath,

who begot you and left?

Though I begot no man child

all my days,

the child of my heart and spirit,

is the child the gods desert

alike and the mother in death—

the unclaimed Dionysios.

[18]

IV

What of her—

mistress of Death?

Form of a golden wreath

were my hands that girt her head,

fingers that strove to meet,

and met where the whisps escaped

from the fillet, of tenderest gold,

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