Page:The Pot of Earth.pdf/24

 Mourning the dead god—She heard them sing Wandering on the mountain. Oh, she felt Ill. It was horrible. She thought of him Dead, and the weeping. In March the snows melt Dribbling between the shrivelled roots till they brim The soaked soil, till the moon comes, until The moon compels them; and the surf at the sea’s rim Breaks scarlet and beneath the pine roots spill Rivers of blood. There was blood upon her things That night. And she had violets enough to fill The yellow bowl with the pattern of pigeon wings—