Ii

Ghost moths hover over asphodel; Shades, once Laïs' peers Drift past us; The mist is grey.

Far over us The white wave-crests flash in the sun; The sea-girls lie upon hot, weedy rocks.

Now the Maid returns to us With fragrance of the world And of the hours of gods. On earth Apple-trees, weighted with red fruit, Streams, passing through the corn lands, Hear laughter.

We pluck the asphodel, Yet we weave no crowns For we have no vines; No one speaks here; No one kisses.

H. D.