The Winged Beetle

THE PRINCESS OF PANORMITA 53 Reels in the redeless rune, Ineffably, utterly tender ! Hark ! the appealing cry Of deadly hurt in the hollow :— Hyacinth ! Hyacinth ! Ay ! Smitten to death by Apollo. Swift, O maiden moon, Send they ray-dews after ; Turn the dolorous tune To soft ambiguous laughter ! Mourn, O Maenads, mourn ! Surely your comfort is over. All we laugh at you lorn. Ours are the poppies and clover ! O that mouth and eyes, Mischievous, male, alluring ! O that twitch of the thighs Dorian past enduring ! Where is wisdom now ? Where the sage and his doubt ? Surely the sweat of the brow Hath driven the demon out. Surely the scented sleep That crowns the equal war Is wiser than only to weep— To weep for evermore !