Poem: Santa Decca



The Gods are dead: no longer do we bring
To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves!
Demeter's child no more hath tithe of sheaves,
And in the noon the careless shepherds sing,
For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning
By secret glade and devious haunt is o'er:
Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more;
Great Pan is dead, and Mary's son is King.

And yet - perchance in this sea-tranced isle,
Chewing the bitter fruit of memory,
Some God lies hidden in the asphodel.
Ah Love! if such there be, then it were well
For us to fly his anger: nay, but see,
The leaves are stirring: let us watch awhile.

CORFU.

Added: Aug 13 2004 | Viewed: 1240 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Oscar Wilde
Poem: 32. Poem: Santa Decca
Volume: Poems
Year: Published/Written in 1881
Poem of the Day on:
Mar 13 2005
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