High upon a basalt cliff,
carpeted round with lily fields
and blanching poppys' lips,
high upon a basalt throne,
Persephone sits.

Frail as lily wands,
lithe as Syrinx songs upon a reed.

And there, below,
grim Sisyphus,
and there the Centaur-sire
spins upon a wheel of fire.

And there, Tantalus sits grinning
mumbling prayers of sin and sinning,
hunkered down to steal the peach
which quickly leaps beyond his reach.

Or there, a hundred weary sisters
with a hundred leaking jugs
and a cistern dry as bone.

High upon the basalt cliff,
still as infant breath upon the air,
Persphone, sits and stares.