Page:The Poems of Henry Kendall (1920).djvu/175

 Sitteth thy child than a morning-moon bleaker, the faded, and far.

Ringed with the flower-like Six of the Seven, arrayed and anointed

Ever with beautiful pity, she watches, she weeps, and she wanes,

Blind as a flame on the hills of the Winter in hours appointed

For the life of the foam and the thunder—the strength of the imminent rains.

Who hath a portion, Alcyone, like her? Asterope, fairer

Than sunset on snow, and beloved of all brightness, say what is there left

Sadder and paler than Pleione's daughter, disconsolate bearer

Of trouble that smites like a sword of the gods to the break of the heft?

Demeter, and Dryope, known to the forests, the falls, and the fountains,

Yearly, because of their walking and wailing and wringing of hands,

Are they as one with this woman?—or Hyrie, wild in the mountains,

Breaking her heart in the frosts and the fires of the uttermost lands?

These have their bitterness. This, for Persephone, that for Œchalian

Homes, and the lights of a kindness blown out with the stress of her shame:

One for her child, and one for her sin; but thou above all art an alien,

Girt with the halos that vex thee, and wrapt in a grief beyond name.

Yet sayeth Sisyphus—Sisyphus, stricken and chained of the minioned

Kings of great darkness, and trodden in dust by the feet of the Fates—

Sweet are the ways of thy watching, and pallid and perished and pinioned,

Moon amongst maidens, I leap for thy love like a god at the gates—

Leap for the dreams of a rose of the heavens, and beat at the portals

Paved with the pain of unsatisfied pleadings for thee and for thine!