THE DEAD EROS.
It must be many ages since you died,Yet the earth-mountains and unquiet streamsAnd all the swaying reeds remember you;And we remember, and tell o'er and o'erThe story of your coming, and the griefThat fell on all things living when you died.We call you Balder, White and Beautiful,And Young Adonis whom the wild boar slew,Diarmuid the Brown-Haired; Angus fast asleepIn the Blue Wood of Shadows where no windComes ever roughly and no voice from earthCan break the quiet; and we mourn for youWho cannot hear us, while Apollo singsAnd Lugh the Mighty Slinger sends the sunWhirling through heaven. Even the happy godsShed tears for Balder, but we mourn for you!As only men can mourn through nights and daysMade sick with failure, sorrowful and lone.Dead Eros, you are buried in our heartsWith our dead hopes that drew around them onceSo much of joy and beauty, and took allInto the Dark where all things fair must go.You are the love we cannot keep: the dreamWe die for, and the peace always unknown,Dead Eros folded in the arms of Night.
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