No more you weave, Persephone, Gowns the colors of the sea. Your ivory fingers now are still And your grave a grassy hill. But everywhere songs are sung They sing of you who died so young. And lads and lassies passing by Strew bergamot where you lie. No more you weave, Persephone, Gowns the colors of the sea. Emerald, chrysoprase and blue, That looked beautiful on you. But everywhere songs are sung They sing of you who died so young. |