When, beside thee at night, holy dreams deep and deeper
Enclosed his young life on the couch made of gold!
Love him still, poor Adonis! cast on him together
The crowns and the flowers! since he died from the place
Why let all die with him—let the blossoms go wither;
Rain myrtles and olive-buds down on his face:
Rain the myrrh down, let all that is best fall a-pining,
For thy myrrh, his life, from thy keeping is swept!—
—Pale he lay, thine Adonis, in purples reclining—
The Loves raised their voices around him and wept.
They have shorn their bright curls off to cast on Adonis:
One treads on his bow,—on his arrows, another,—
One breaks up a well-feathered quiver; and one is,
Bent low on a sandal, untying the strings;
And one carries the vases of gold from the springs,
While one washes the wound; and behind them a brother
Fans down on the body sweet airs with his wings.
VIII.
Cytherea herself, now, the Loves are lamenting.
Each torch at the door, Hymenæus blew out;
And the marriage-wreath dropping its leaves as repenting,
No more "Hymen, Hymen," is chanted about,
But the ai ai instead—"ai alas" is begun
