---

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - Adonis
Work rating: Low

The gods did love Adonis, and for this
 He died, ere time had furrowed his young cheek.
 For Aphrodité slew him with a kiss.
 He sighed one sigh, as though he fain would speak
 The name he loved, but that his breath grown weak
 Died on his lips. So died the summer breeze;
 And all the wood was hushed a minute`s space,
 Where I stood listening underneath the trees,
 Until a wood--chat from her secret place
 Chirped in an undertone, ``He is not dead,
 Not dead, for lo! the bloom upon his face
 Is ruddy as the newly--blossomed rose
 Which even yet is woven round his head.
 But sleep, more sweet than waking dream, doth close
 The laughter of his eyes. He is not dead.``

 Alone in that fair wood the livelong day
 And through the silent night I watched him near.
 But in the morning he was fled away,
 When broke the dawn upon me cold and clear.
 I looked within the thicket where he lay;
 And lo! the sod, which he had pressed in death,
 Was white with blossoms, scattered from the may,
 Which made the thick air sweet with their sweet breath.
 But he was gone; and I went o`er the heath,
 Clutching, like one distraught, the dim air grey
 With dawning,--for a voice encompassed me,
 Crying, ``Fair boy, thy youth was but a span,
 Yet did it circle in eternity.
 Thy epic was accomplishèd. A man
 Fills but the measure of his destiny,
 And thine was all complete. Ere age began
 To mar the royal palace of thy youth
 With upper storeys of less perfect plan,
 Death, kindly Death, filled with immortal ruth,
 Took back the trowel from the builder`s hand,
 And wrote his `fecit` on thy work of truth.``
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.