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 tithe1 of sheaves，
And in the noon the careless shepherds sing，
For Pan is dead， and all the wantoning
By secret glade2 and devious3 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 isle4，
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： nay5， but see，
The leaves are stirring： let us watch awhile.
CORFU.
