This is the antre of the Nymphs—sacred, hushed, and dripping with white water. Above the holy spring rustles a plabe-tree and about the sweet-breathing meadows bloom many flowers; River-dwelling narcissus, the rose of lovers, white gleaming violets and the wind-flowers of Kypris. I say to them, “Hail!” For these things are holy; yet I am sorrowful, for this loveliness passes away, like the songs of the singing-birds at evening. Love also dies and there is none to mourn him, none to pour wine or thread sombre garlands of grief. XIII. Unfriendly Gods There is a god of Fortune and a god of Love; they are seldom friends. XIV. The Old Love From an old love there is sometimes born a new Eros. It was Alkmene, whom I once loved, who first brought you to me. Therefore today, we will hang a garland of white violets at her door. XV. Another Greater Here are pines, black against vast blue; here, the cicada sings; here, there are sparse wind-flowers. Above us, Helios; under our feet, the breast of the great Mother; far below us, the blue curls of Poseidon. These are great and terrible gods, yet in your shape another greater and more terrible rules me. XVI. The Last Song Along the shorn fields stand the last brow wheat-sheaves, casting long shadows in the autumn sunset. White were the horses of Helios at dawn, golden at noon, blood-red at night—and all too brief the day. So was my life and even so brief; night comes; I rise from the glad feast, drink to the gods of Life, cast incense to the gods of Death, to Love a shattered rose; and turn away. Hail, all! Laugh, this is the bitter end of life. And— “_The Brook Kerith_” Lord Alfred Douglas has sued George Moore for blasphemy. The Queensburys were born to be fools: whenever art appears in England they become Wilde-eyed. Whoever started the tradition of George Moore’s naughtiness? _The Brook Kerith_ is as reverent as Mr. Moore is chaste. A long time ago we used “psycho-analysis” on Mr. Moore and knew then that he could never get out of the world without writing a book about religion. _The Brook Kerith_ is the story of the Christian religion made out of Mr. Moore’s religion, which is Art. “_Windy McPherson’s Son_” Here is another man who hasn’t written the great American novel.