In the clear laughter of all winds and waves,
⁠In the blown grass of graves,
In the long sound of fluctuant boughs of trees,
⁠In the broad breath of seas,
Bid the sound of thy flying folds be heard;
⁠And as a spoken word
Full of that fair god and that merciless
⁠Who rends the Pythoness,
So be the sound and so the fire that saith
⁠She feels her ancient breath
And the old blood move in her immortal veins.

⁠Strange travail and strong pains,
Our mother, hast thou borne these many years
⁠While thy pure blood and tears
Mixed with the Tyrrhene and the Adrian sea;
⁠Light things were said of thee,
As of one buried deep among the dead;
⁠Yea, she hath been, they said,
She was when time was younger, and is not;
⁠The very cerecloths rot
That flutter in the dusty wind of death,
⁠Not moving with her breath;
Far seasons and forgotten years enfold
⁠Her dead corpse old and cold
With many windy winters and pale springs:
⁠She is none of this world's things.
Though her dead head like a live garland wear
⁠The golden-growing hair page