BETWEEN the circling ocean sea And the poplars of Persephone There lies a strip of barren sand, Flecked with the sea's last spray, and strown With waste leaves of the poplars, blown From gardens of the shadow land.

    With altars of old sacrifice The shore is set, in mournful wise The mists upon the ocean brood； Between the water and the air The clouds are born that float and fare Between the water and the wood.

    Upon the grey sea never sail Of mortals passed within our hail, Where the last weak waves faint and flow； We heard within the poplar pale The murmur¹ of a doubtful wail² Of voices loved so long ago.

    We scarce had care to die or live, We had no honey cake to give, No wine of sacrifice to shed； There lies no new path over sea, And now we know how faint they be, The feasts and voices of the Dead.

    Ah, flowers and dance！ ah, sun and snow！ Glad life, sad life we did forego To dream of quietness and rest； Ah, would the fleet sweet roses here Poured light and perfume through the drear Pale year, and wan³ land of the west.

    Sad youth, that let the spring go by Because the spring is swift to fly, Sad youth, that feared to mourn or love, Behold⁴ how sadder far is this, To know that rest is nowise bliss⁵, And darkness is the end thereof.