Chapter I

She stepped upon Sicilian grass,
Demeter's daughter, fresh and fair;
A child of light, a radiant lass,
And gamesome as the morning air.
The daffodils were fair to see,
They nodded lightly on the lea,
Persephone--Persephone!

Lo! one she marked of fairer growth
Than orchis or anemone:
For it the maiden left them both,
And parted from her company.
Drawn nigh she deemed it fairer still,
And stooped to gather by the rill
The daffodil, the daffodil.

What ailed the meadow that it shook?
What ailed the air of Sicily?
She wandered by the prattling brook,
And trembled with the trembling lea.
"The coal-black horses rise--they rise:
O Mother, Mother!" low she cries--
Persephone--Persephone!

"O light, light, light!" she cried, "farewell;
The coal-black horses wait for me.
O shade of shades, where must I dwell,
Demeter, Mother, far from thee!
Ah, fated doom that I fulfil!
Ah, fateful flower beside the rill!
The daffodil, the daffodil!"

What ails her that she comes not home?
Demeter seeks her far and wide,
And gloomy-browed doth ceaseless roam
From many a morn till eventide.
"My life, immortal though it be,
Is nought," she cried, "for want of thee,
Persephone--Persephone!"

"Meadows of Enna, let the rain
No longer drop to feed your rills,
Nor dew refresh the fields again,
With all their nodding daffodils!
Fade, fade and droop, O lilied lea,
Where thou, dear heart, wast reft from me--
Persephone--Persephone!"