Page:Suppliant Maidens (Morshead) 1883.djvu/12

vi And in the whisper of the waving oak

Hears still the Dryad's plaint, and, in the wind

That sighs through moonlit woodlands, knows the horn

Of Artemis, and silver shafts and bow.

Therefore if still around this broken vase,

Borne by rough hands, unworthy of their load,

Far from Cephisus and the wandering rills,

There cling a fragrance as of things once sweet,

Of honey from Hymettus' desert hill,

Take thou the gift and hold it close and dear;

For gifts that die have living memories—

Voices of unreturning days, that breathe

The spirit of a day that never dies.