PROSERPINE
"Sacred Goddess, Mother Earth,
"Thou from whose immortal bosom,
"Gods, and men, and beasts have birth,
"Leaf and blade, and bud and blossom.
"Breathe thine influence most divine
"On thine own child, Proserpine.
"If with mists of evening dew
"Thou dost nourish those young flowers
"Till they grow, in scent and hue,
"Fairest children of the hours.
"Breathe thine influence most divine
"On thine own child, Proserpine."—Shelley.
The story of Persephone—of Proserpine—is a story of spring. When the sun is warming the bare brown earth, and the pale primroses look up through the snowy blackthorns at a kind, blue sky, almost can we hear the soft wind murmur a name as it gently sways the daffodils and breathes through the honey sweetness of the gold-powdered catkins on the grey willows by the river—"Persephone! Persephone!"
Now once there was a time when there was no spring, neither summer nor autumn, nor chilly winter with its black frosts and cruel gales and brief, dark days. Always was there sunshine and warmth, ever were there flowers and corn and fruit, and nowhere did the flowers
