Not half so saintly,--but far more divine.


IV

With the young god who out of death creates
The flame of life made manifest in spring,
Let us go forth at day's awakening,
The first to open wide the garden gates.
And resting where the blowing seasons sing,
Await the voice of god who consecrates
The pallid hands of the autumnal fates
That beckon from the dusk, dream-harvesting.

When comes the grey god, eager to destroy
Our garnered hoard of wisdom and of joy,
Fear not that phantom, desolate and stark,
For the young god, the all-creating boy,
Will come and find us sleeping in the dark,
And from two deaths, bring forth life's single spark.


V

O it was gay! the wilderness was floral,
The sea a bath of wine to the laughing swimmer;
Dawn was a flaming fan; dusk was a glimmer
Like undersea where sly dreams haunt the coral.
The garden sang of fame when the golden shimmer
Of sun glowed on the proud leaves of the laurel,--