oscar wildeThe Gods are dead: no longer do we bring
To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves!
Demeter’s child no more hath tithe of sheaves,
And in the noon the careless shepherd sings,
For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning
By secret glade and devious 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 isle
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: Nay but see,
The leaves are stirring : let us watch a-while

By Aleko Damaskinos

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