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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
DEMETER AND CORA, by DORA GREENWELL Poet's Biography First Line: Speak, daughter, speak; art speaking now Last Line: Art near me, o my cora, now Alternate Author Name(s): Dorothy, Greenwell | |||
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, Aides! 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 Aides?" " 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 wine 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-light 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? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SCHERZO (A SHY PERSON'S WISHES) by DORA GREENWELL A SONG OF FAREWELL by DORA GREENWELL TO CHRISTINA ROSSETTI by DORA GREENWELL WHEN THE NIGHT AND MORNING MEET by DORA GREENWELL BATTLE FLAG OF SIGURD by DORA GREENWELL BLADE OF GRASS by DORA GREENWELL |
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