The gods did love Adonis, and for this <br />He died, ere time had furrowed his young cheek. <br />For Aphrodité slew him with a kiss. <br />He sighed one sigh, as though he fain would speak <br />The name he loved, but that his breath grown weak <br />Died on his lips. So died the summer breeze; <br />And all the wood was hushed a minute's space, <br />Where I stood listening underneath the trees, <br />Until a wood--chat from her secret place <br />Chirped in an undertone, ``He is not dead, <br />Not dead, for lo! the bloom upon his face <br />Is ruddy as the newly--blossomed rose <br />Which even yet is woven round his head. <br />But sleep, more sweet than waking dream, doth close <br />The laughter of his eyes. He is not dead.'' <br /> <br />Alone in that fair wood the livelong day <br />And through the silent night I watched him near. <br />But in the morning he was fled away, <br />When broke the dawn upon me cold and clear. <br />I looked within the thicket where he lay; <br />And lo! the sod, which he had pressed in death, <br />Was white with blossoms, scattered from the may, <br />Which made the thick air sweet with their sweet breath. <br />But he was gone; and I went o'er the heath, <br />Clutching, like one distraught, the dim air grey <br />With dawning,--for a voice encompassed me, <br />Crying, ``Fair boy, thy youth was but a span, <br />Yet did it circle in eternity. <br />Thy epic was accomplishèd. A man <br />Fills but the measure of his destiny, <br />And thine was all complete. Ere age began <br />To mar the royal palace of thy youth <br />With upper storeys of less perfect plan, <br />Death, kindly Death, filled with immortal ruth, <br />Took back the trowel from the builder's hand, <br />And wrote his `fecit' on thy work of truth.''<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/adonis-5/
