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

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.