the evening cometh upon thee, Breathe upon us, that low-bowed and exultant Drink wine of Iacchus, that since the conquering Hath been chiefly containèd in the numbers Of them that, even as thou, have woven Wicker baskets for grape clusters Wherein is concealèd the source of the vintage, O High Priest of Iacchus, Breathe thou upon us Thy magic in parting! Even as they thy co-novices, At being mingled with the sea, While yet thou madest thy canticles Serving upright before the altar That is bound about with shadows Of dead years wherein thy Iacchus Looked not upon the hills, that being Uncared for, praised not him in entirety. O High Priest of Iacchus, Being now near to the border of the sands Where the sapphire girdle of the sea Encinctureth the maiden Persephone, released for the spring, Look! Breathe upon us The wonder of the thrice encinctured mystery Whereby thou being full of years art young, Loving even this lithe Persephone That is free for the seasons of plenty; Whereby thou being young art old And shalt stand before this Persephone Whom thou lovest, In darkness, even at that time That she being returned to her husband Shall be queen and a maiden no longer, Wherein thou being neither old nor young Standing on the verge of the sea Shalt pass from being sand, O High Priest of Iacchus, And becoming wave Shalt encircle all sands, Being transmuted through all The girdling of the sea. O High Priest of Iacchus, Breathe thou upon us! Note.—This apostrophe was written three years before Swinburne's death. Δώρια Be in me as the eternal moods of the bleak wind, and not As transient things are—gaiety of flowers. Have me in the strong loneliness of sunless cliffs And of grey waters. Let the gods speak softly of us In days hereafter, The shadowy flowers of Orcus Remember Thee. THE NEEDLE Come, or the stellar tide will slip away, Eastward avoid the hour of its decline, Now! for the needle trembles in my soul! Here have we had our vantage, the good hour. Here we have had our day, your day and mine. Come now, before this power That bears us up, shall turn against the pole. Mock not the flood of stars, the thing's to be. O Love, come now, this land turns evil slowly. The waves bore in, soon will they bear away. The treasure is ours, make we fast land with it. Move we and take the tide, with its next favour, Abide Under some neutral force Until this course turneth aside. SUB MARE It is, and is not, I am sane enough, Since you have come this place has hovered round me, This fabrication built of autumn roses, Then there's a goldish colour, different. And one gropes in these things as delicate Algae reach up and out beneath Pale slow green surgings of the under-wave, 'Mid these things older than the names they have, These things that are 

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