IN your dim Greece of old, Alcithoë, <br />Death like a lover sought and crowned you young, <br />Between the olive orchards and the sea. <br /> <br />When they had twined your myrtle-buds, and hung <br />The stately cypress at your door, they said, <br />'Alcithoë is dead, <br />Before whose feet the flaming crocus sprung, <br />For whom the red rose opened ere the prime; <br />Those the gods love are taken before their time.'– <br /> <br />Ah! why did no one, watching you alone, <br />Snare your dead beauty in undying stone ? <br />The gold hair bound beneath its golden band, <br />The milk-white poppies closed within your hand; <br />That the harsh world a little space might keep <br />The last, still, exquisite vision of your sleep.<br /><br />Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-alcitho/
