Santa Decca

　　The Gods are dead： no longer do we bring

　　To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves！

　　Demeter's child no more hath tithe¹ of sheaves，

　　And in the noon the careless shepherds sing，

　　For Pan is dead， and all the wantoning

　　By secret glade² and devious³ haunt is o'er：

　　Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more；

　　Great Pan is dead， and Mary's son is King.

　　And yet - perchance in this sea-tranced isle⁴，

　　Chewing the bitter fruit of memory，

　　Some God lies hidden in the asphodel.

　　Ah Love！ if such there be， then it were well

　　For us to fly his anger： nay⁵， but see，

　　The leaves are stirring： let us watch awhile.

　　CORFU.