Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Alfred H. Miles, ed. Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.

By Poems. VI. Demeter and Cora

Dora Greenwell (1821–1882)

“SPEAK, daughter, speak; art speaking now?”

“Seek, mother, seek; art seeking thou

Thy dear-loved Cora?” “Daughter sweet,

I bend unto the earth my ear

To catch the sound of coming feet;

I listen long but only hear

The deep, dark waters running clear.”

“Oh! my great mother, now the heat

Of thy strong heart in thickened beat

Hath reached thy Cora in her gloom,

Is’t well with thee, my Mother—tell?”

“Is’t well with thee, my daughter?” “Well

Or ill I know not; I through fate

Queen of a wide unmeasured tomb

Know not if it be love or hate

That holds me fast, but I am bound

For ever! What if I am found

Of thee, my mother, still the bars

Are round me, and the girdling night

Hath passed within my soul! the stars

Have risen on me, but the light

Hath gone for ever.” “Daughter, tell,

Doth thy dark lord, the King of Hell,

Still love thee?” “Oh, too well, too well

He loves! he binds with unwrought chain.

I was not born to be thy mate,

Aïdes! nor the Queen of pain:

I was thy daughter Cora, vowed

To gladness in thy world above,

I loved the daffodil, I love

All lovely, free and gentle things

Beloved of thee! a sound of wings

Is with me in captivity,

Of birds, and bees, with her that sings

The shrill Cicula, ever gay

In noon’s white heat.” “But, daughter, say

Dost love Aïdes?” “Now, too bold

Thy question, mother; this be told,

I leave him not for love, for gold,

One lot we share, one life we know.

The Lord is he of wealth and rest,

As well as king of death and pain;

He folds me to a kingly breast,

He yields to me a rich domain.

I leave him not for aught above,

For any God’s unsteadfast love

Or fairest mortal-form below;

Thou hast left heaven for earth; and thou

For thy poor Cora’s sake, self-driven,

Hast fled its sunny heights in scorn

And hate, of Zeus unforgiven!

Do mortals love thee?” “Daughter, yea.

They call me their great mother. Corn

And wine I give them when they pray;

Their love for me their little day

Of life lasts out; perchance they knew

It was not love for them that drew

Me down to wander where the vine

Is sweet to me, and breath of kine.

Art listening now, my Cora dear?

Art listening now, my child,—art near?

Oh, that thy kiss upon my cheek

Were warm! thy little hand in mine

Once more! Yet, let me hear thee speak,

And tell me of that garden rare,

And of thy flowers, dark, fiery, sweet,

That never breathe the upper air.”

“Oh, mother, they are fair, are fair;

Large-leaved are they, large-blossomed, frail,

And beautiful. No vexing gale

Comes ever nigh them; fed with fire,

They kindle in a torch-like flame

Half ecstasy, half tender shame

Of bloom that must so soon expire.

But, mother, tell me of the wet

Cool primrose! of the lilac-bough

And its warm gust of rapture, met

In summer days!—art listening yet?”

“Art near me, O my Cora, now?”