ROUND the green-kindling hawthorn hill, Upon the Path of Daffodil, Before the morning star was set, A pomp of grave Greek girls I met: And, like the florets of the Way, Of gleaming pearl and amber they Were wrought. Upon their bounden hair Pale urns of noble curve they bare. "Oh! Whither?" said I, "Wander ye, Most beautiful Canephori? To what great Temple go ye up, Cupbearers of what mystic cup? For what sweet god has each gold head Its dainty curls white-filleted? What virgin pleasures do ye bring Unto the triumph of the Spring?" One turned her head and answered me: "We know not what our burdens be, Nor to what temple go we up To pour strange wine from graven Cup; But the young god of our desire Shall draw our feet before they tire To His great House of gold and white Where all the rites are mere delight." She spake. The frieze of daffodil, Of mingled flowers and maidens, still Girdled the glad white-flowering hill. |