I mourn for Adonis--the Loves are lamenting. Deep, deep in the thigh is Adonis's wound, But a deeper, is Cypris's bosom presenting. The youth lieth dead while his dogs howl around, And the nymphs weep aloud from the mists of the hill, And the poor Aphrodité, with tresses unbound, All dishevelled, unsandaled, shrieks mournful and shrill Through the dusk of the groves. The thorns, tearing her feet, Gather up the red flower of her blood which is holy, Each footstep she takes; and the valleys repeat The sharp cry she utters and draw it out slowly. She calls on her spouse, her Assyrian, on him Her own youth, while the dark blood spreads over his body, The chest taking hue from the gash in the limb, And the bosom, once ivory, turning to ruddy. IV. Ah, ah, Cytherea! the Loves are lamenting. She lost her fair spouse and so lost her fair smile: When he lived she was fair, by the whole world's consenting, Whose fairness is dead with him: woe worth the while! All the mountains above and the oaklands below Murmur, ah, ah, Adonis! the streams overflow Aphrodité's deep wail; river-fountains in pity Weep soft in the hills, and the flowers as they blow Redden outward with sorrow, while all hear her go With the song of her sadness through mountain and city. V. Ah, ah, Cytherea! Adonis is dead, Fair Adonis is dead--Echo answers, Adonis: Who weeps not for Cypris, when bowing her head She stares at the wound where it gapes and astonies? --When, ah, ah!--she saw how the blood ran away And empurpled the thigh, and, with wild hands flung out, Said with sobs: "Stay, Adonis! unhappy one, stay, Let me feel thee once more, let me ring thee about With the clasp of my arms, and press kiss into kiss! Wait a little, Adonis, and kiss me again, For the last time, beloved,--and but so much of this That the kiss may learn life from the warmth of the strain! --Till thy breath shall exude from thy soul to my mouth, To my heart, and, the love-charm I once more receiving May drink thy love in it and keep of a truth That one kiss in the place of Adonis the living. Thou fliest me, mournful one, fliest me far, My Adonis, and seekest the Acheron portal,-- To Hell's cruel King goest down with a scar, While I weep and live on like a wretched immortal, And follow no step! O Persephoné, take him, My husband!--thou'rt better and brighter than I, So all beauty flows down to thee: _I_ cannot make him Look up at my grief; there's despair in my cry, Since I wail for Adonis who died to me--died to me-- Then, I fear _thee_!--Art thou dead, my Adored? Passion ends like a dream in the sleep that's denied to me, Cypris is widowed, the Loves seek their lord All the house through in vain. Charm of cestus has ceased With thy clasp! O too bold in the hunt past preventing, Ay, mad, thou so fair, to have strife with a beast!"