The flowers decay,

The Goddess of your sacrifice

Has flown away.

What profit, then, to sing or slay

The sacrifice from day to day?

"We know the Shrine is void," they said,

"The Goddess flown—

Yet wreaths are on the Altar laid—

The Altar-Stone

Is black with fumes of sacrifice,

Albeit She has fled our eyes.

"For it may be, if still we sing

And tend the Shrine,

Some Deity on wandering wing

May there incline;

And, finding all in order meet,

Stay while we worship at Her feet."

[208]

[208]

VIII

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