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All these through thee our spirit of sense perceives,
As threads in the unseen woof thy music weaves,
Birds caught and snared that fill our cars with thee,
Bay-blossoms in thy wreath of brow-bound leaves.
Mixed with the masque of death’s old comedy
Though thou too pass, have here our flowers, that we
For all the flowers thou gav’st upon thee shed,
And pass not crownless to Persephone.
Blue lotus-blooms and white and rosy-red
We wind with poppies for thy silent head,
And on this margin of the sundering sea
Leave thy sweet light to rise upon the dead.
SWINBURNE.
