Mourning the dead god—She heard them sing
Wandering on the mountain.
Oh, she felt
Ill. It was horrible. She thought of him
Dead, and the weeping.
In March the snows melt
Dribbling between the shrivelled roots till they brim
The soaked soil, till the moon comes, until
The moon compels them; and the surf at the sea’s rim
Breaks scarlet and beneath the pine roots spill
Rivers of blood. There was blood upon her things
That night. And she had violets enough to fill
The yellow bowl with the pattern of pigeon wings—
8
