The Awakening of a God

With bruised throat, their tresses flowing free,
Their grieving goaded by the tears that rise,
The Byblus women with lugubrious cries
Conduct the slow and mournful obsequy.

For on the couch, heaped with anemone,
Where death has closed his languishing, large eyes,
Perfumed with spices and with incense lies
The one by Syria's maids loved doatingly.

The singers sound the dirge till morning breaks.
But look! Now at Astarte's call he wakes—
Mysterious Spouse by whom the myrrh's bedewed.

He's risen, the youth of old! and all the heaven
Blossoms in one great rose with blood bright-hued
Of an Adonis to celestials given.