Adonis

The gods did love Adonis, and for this He died, ere time had furrowed his young cheek. For Aphrodité slew him with a kiss. He sighed one sigh, as though he fain would speak The name he loved, but that his breath grown weak Died on his lips. So died the summer breeze; And all the wood was hushed a minute's space, Where I stood listening underneath the trees, Until a wood--chat from her secret place Chirped in an undertone, ``He is not dead, Not dead, for lo! the bloom upon his face Is ruddy as the newly--blossomed rose Which even yet is woven round his head. But sleep, more sweet than waking dream, doth close The laughter of his eyes. He is not dead.'' Alone in that fair wood the livelong day And through the silent night I watched him near. But in the morning he was fled away, When broke the dawn upon me cold and clear. I looked within the thicket where he lay; And lo! the sod, which he had pressed in death, Was white with blossoms, scattered from the may, Which made the thick air sweet with their sweet breath. But he was gone; and I went o'er the heath, Clutching, like one distraught, the dim air grey With dawning,--for a voice encompassed me, Crying, ``Fair boy, thy youth was but a span, Yet did it circle in eternity. Thy epic was accomplishèd. A man Fills but the measure of his destiny, And thine was all complete. Ere age began To mar the royal palace of thy youth With upper storeys of less perfect plan, Death, kindly Death, filled with immortal ruth, Took back the trowel from the builder's hand, And wrote his `fecit' on thy work of truth.''