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?