familiars of the god. PLUNGE I would bathe myself in strangeness: These comforts heaped upon me, smother me! I burn, I scald so for the new, New friends, new faces, Places! Oh to be out of this, This that is all I wanted —save the new. And you, Love, you the much, the more desired! Do I not loathe all walls, streets, stones, All mire, mist, all fog, All ways of traffic? You, I would have flow over me like water, Oh, but far out of this! Grass, and low fields, and hills, And sun, Oh, sun enough! Out and alone, among some Alien people! A VIRGINAL No, no! Go from me. I have left her lately, I will not spoil my sheath with lesser brightness, For my surrounding air has a new lightness; Slight are her arms, yet they have bound me straitly And left me cloaked as with a gauze of æther; As with sweet leaves; as with a subtle clearness. Oh, I have picked up magic in her nearness To sheathe me half in half the things that sheathe her. No, no! Go from me. I have still the flavour, Soft as spring wind that's come from birchen bowers. Green come the shoots, aye April in the branches, As winter's wound with her sleight hand she staunches, Hath of the tress a likeness of the savour: As white their bark, so white this lady's hours. PAN IS DEAD Pan is dead. Great Pan is dead. Ah! bow your heads, ye maidens all, And weave ye him his coronal. There is no summer in the leaves, And withered are the sedges; How shall we weave a coronal, Or gather floral pledges? That I may not say, Ladies. Death was ever a churl. That I may not say, Ladies. How should he show a reason, That he has taken our Lord away Upon such hollow season? THE PICTURE[1] The eyes of this dead lady speak to me, For here was love, was not to be drowned out, And here desire, not to be kissed away. The eyes of this dead lady speak to me. From Charles D'Orleans For music (A.C.S.) Knowing thy melody, High Priest of Iacchus. High Priest of Iacchus, O High Priest of Iacchus! O High Priest of Iacchus! O High Priest of Iacchus,
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