Chapter XLV: Women of Tanagra

Have these forgotten they are toys of Death That in his sad aphelions of desire They still regret the joy that perisheth, And Spring's great reveries that exceed and tire,-- Faintly accusing Love's unmercied yokes With almost wanton grace, the craft and art Of precious frailty that with subtle strokes Of sweetness finds the core of Passion's heart? They carry fans and mirrors, or make fast The mournful flute-like cadence of a veil. Slight fans that winnowed souls, mirrors that glassed The burning brooding wings which never fail! Still in such lovely vanities to-day The gods their secret wisdom hide away.