Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/264

 As the fire smote her in the eyes between Cried, and the child’s laugh, sharply shortening As fire doth under rain, fell off; the flame Writhed once all through and died, and in thick dark Tears fell from mine on the child’s weeping eyes, Eyes dispossessed of strong inheritance And mortal fallen anew. Who not the less From bud of beard to pale-grey flower of hair Shall wax vinewise to a lordly vine, whose grapes Bleed the red heavy blood of swoln soft wine, Subtle with sharp leaves’ intricacy, until Full of white years and blossom of hoary days I take him perfected; for whose one sake I am thus gracious to the least who stands Filleted with white wool and girt upon As he whose prayer endures upon the lip And falls not waste: wherefore let sacrifice Burn and run red in all the wider ways; Seeing I have sworn by the pale temples’ band And poppied hair of gold Persephone Sad-tressed and pleached low down about her brows, And by the sorrow in her lips, and death Her dumb and mournful-mouthèd minister, My word for you is eased of its harsh weight And doubled with soft promise; and your king Triptolemus, this Celeus dead and swathed Purple and pale for golden burial, Shall be your helper in my services,