O Torch that makest one!
Weepest thou, Mother mine own?
Surely thy cheek is pale
With tears, tears that wail
For a land and a father dead.
But I go garlanded:
I am the Bride of Desire:
Therefore my torch is borne--
Lo, the lifting of morn,
Lo, the leaping of fire!--

For thee, O Hymen bright,
For thee, O Moon of the Deep,
So Law hath charged, for the light
Of a maid's last sleep.

Awake, O my feet, awake: [_Antistrophe_.
Our father's hope is won!
Dance as the dancing skies
Over him, where he lies
Happy beneath the sun!...
Lo, the Ring that I make....

[_She makes a circle round her with a torch, and visions appear to her_.

Apollo!... Ah, is it thou?
O shrine in the laurels cold,
I bear thee still, as of old,
Mine incense! Be near to me now.