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Lay buried in the flowers._ Then in his wrath arose Apollo, lord of light, That shows The wrong deed from the right; And by what radiant laws O'erruling human needs, The cause To consequence proceeds; How balanced is the sway He gives each mortal doom: How day Demands the atoning gloom: How all good things await The soul that pays the price To Fate By equal sacrifice; And how on him that sleeps For less than labour's sake There creeps Uncharmed, the Pythian snake. III Lulled by the wash of the feathery grasses, a sea with many a sun-swept billow, Heart to heart in the heart of the summer, lover by lover asleep they lay, Hearing only the whirring cicala that chirruped awhile at their poppied pillow Faint and sweet as the murmur of men that laboured in villages far away. Was not the menace indeed more silent? Ah, what care for labour and sorrow? Gods in the meadows of moly and amaranth surely might envy their deep sweet bed Here where the butterflies troubled the lilies of peace, and took no thought for the morrow, And golden-girdled bees made feast as over the lotus the soft sun spread. Nearer, nearer the menace glided, out of the gorgeous gloom around them, Out of the poppy-haunted shadows deep in the heart of the purple brake; Till through the hush and the heat as they lay, and their own sweet listless dreams enwound them,-- Mailed and mottled with hues of the grape-bloom suddenly, quietly, glided the snake. Subtle as jealousy, supple as falsehood, diamond-headed and cruel as pleasure, Coil by coil he lengthened and glided, straight to the fragrant curve of her throat: There in the print of the last of the kisses that still glowed red from the sweet long pressure, Fierce as famine and swift as lightning over the glittering lyre he smote. IV And over the cold white body of love and delight Orpheus arose in the terrible storm of his grief, With quivering up-clutched hands, deadly and white, And his whole soul wavered and shook like a wind-swept leaf: As a leaf that beats on a mountain, his spirit in vain
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