Beading her fortune from the rose, she grieves:
‘The trees that fill the forest might be friends.’
And then she says: ‘My life, here now it ends.’
The loving willows cover her with leaves.
Recall the fluted silence and the eaves
Of marble, where the running figure bends
Forever, and the lemon tree suspends
The bitter lemons, and the light deceives.
The girls in white with garlands dance through time.
The gods of Greece are broken down for lime.
And now the moon and stars are falling fast.
The ragged sibyl hangs herself in chains,
Foretelling nothing to the northern thanes.
The excellence of art is plaster cast.