When March brings back the Adonis flower
No more the white processions meet,
With incense to their risen lord,
About the pillared temple's feet.

From tusk of boar, from thrust of spear
The dead rise not. At Eastertide
The same sun dances on their graves—
Love's darling and the Crucified.

Yet still the year's returning tide
Flows greenly round each ruined plinth,
Breaking on fallen shafts in foam
Of crocus and of hyacinth:

Tossing a spray of swallows high,
To flutter lightly on the breeze
And fleck with tiny spots of shade
The sunshine on the broken frieze.

I know the gray-green asphodels
Still sheet the dim Elysian mead,
And ever by dark Lethe's wells
The poppy sheds her ghostly seed.

And once—O once!—when sunset lay
Blood red across the winter sea,
Where on the sands we drained our flasks
And danced and cried our Evoel.

Among the tossing cakes of ice
And spouting of the frozen spray,
We saw their white limbs twist and whirl—
The ancient sea-gods at their play.

The gold-brown liquor burned my heart,
The icy tempest stung my brow:
The twanging of Apollo's lyre—
I heard it as I hear it now.

O no, the old gods are not dead:
I think that they will never die;
But I, who lie upon this bed
In mortal anguish—what am I?

A wave that rises with a breath
Above the infinite watery plain,
To foam and sparkle in the sun
A moment ere it sink again.

The eternal undulation runs:
A man, I die: perchance to be,
Next life, a white-throat on the wind,
A daffodil on Tempe's lea.