To Alcithoë

IN your dim Greece of old, Alcithoë, Death like a lover sought and crowned you young, Between the olive orchards and the sea. When they had twined your myrtle-buds, and hung The stately cypress at your door, they said, 'Alcithoë is dead, Before whose feet the flaming crocus sprung, For whom the red rose opened ere the prime; Those the gods love are taken before their time.'– Ah! why did no one, watching you alone, Snare your dead beauty in undying stone ? The gold hair bound beneath its golden band, The milk-white poppies closed within your hand; That the harsh world a little space might keep The last, still, exquisite vision of your sleep.