Poor jealous Procris in the Cretan wood,
Slain by the very hand of love at last!
This way was best; the cordial bath of blood,
The long love-sickness past.
The brown fauns gather round with piteous cries;
They mourn her beauty, know not of her woe;
They find no Eos graven on those eyes
Whence tears no longer flow.
Her griefs, her frailties from the flowery turf
Exhaled, are like the dews of yesterday;
The grim ship hurrying through the Phocian surf,
The exile on her way,
The cruel goddess, and the twofold test,
The breaking heart of hate, the poisoned hours, —
All these have faded out in utter rest
Among the Cretan flowers.
Ah! wrap her body in its fluttering lawns!
'Tis Cephalus' own shaft that hath made cease
The passion of her breast; hush, foolish fauns,
Hush! for her end was peace.