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1876–1944

XX

Helen Hay Whitney

Persephone, Persephone — her sweet face wanders up to me, Through this bewildering maze of spring. At length she daunts the tyrannous year, Her little laugh usurps the tear,

Her little song she dares to fling Against the black stars, merrily. Persephone, Persephone — her hands lean through the spring to me. Sweet, could I show you in what wise

Your song has blossomed — how the air Is mad with gold because your hair, Tossed golden‘ neath your sea-blue eyes, And earth goes laughing with your glee?

Persephone, Persephone, this hour sends out your heart to me. Child of the Dark, with soul sun-bright, Ah, give me largesse, give me May, So shall I charm the saddest day,

And life — one amber dawn's delight — Shall bear your song eternally.

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XX · Helen Hay Whitney · Poetry Cove