Verse > Oscar Wilde > Poems
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Oscar Wilde (1854–1900).  Poems.  1881.

42. Santa Decca


THE Gods are dead: no longer do we bring 
  To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves! 
  Demeter’s child no more hath tithe of sheaves, 
And in the noon the careless shepherds sing, 
For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning         5
  By secret glade and devious haunt is o’er: 
  Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more; 
Great Pan is dead, and Mary’s Son is King. 
  
And yet—perchance in this sea-trancèd isle, 
  Chewing the bitter fruit of memory,  10
  Some God lies hidden in the asphodel. 
Ah Love! if such there be then it were well 
  For us to fly his anger: nay, but see 
  The leaves are stirring: let us watch a-while. 


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