Proserpina
Afar away the light that brings cold cheer
Unto this wall, —one instant and no more
Admitted at my distant palace—door.
Afar the flowers of Enna from this drear
Dire fruit, which, tasted once, must thrall me here.
Afar those skies from this Tartarean grey
That chills me: and afar, how far away,
The nights that shall be from the days that were.
Afar from mine own self I seem, and wing
Strange ways in thought, and listen for a sign:
And still some heart unto some soul doth pine,
Whose sounds mine inner sense is fain to bring,
Continually together murmuring, —
“Woe’s me for thee, unhappy Proserpine!”
