text: Potuia, potuia
  White grave goddess,
  Pity my sadness,
  O silence of Paros.
  
  I am not of these about thy feet,
  These garments and decorum;
  I am thy brother,
  Thy lover of aforetime crying to thee,
  And thou hearest me not.
  
  I have whispered thee in thy solitudes
  Of our loves in Phrygia,
  The far ecstasy of burning noons
  When the fragile pipes
  Ceased in the cypress shade,
  And the brown fingers of the shepherd
  Moved over slim shoulders;
  And only the cicada sang.
  
  I have told thee of the hills
  And the lisp of reeds
  And the sun upon thy breasts,
  
  And thou hearest me not,
  Potuia, potuia
  Thou hearest me not.