Afar away the light that brings cold cheer

Unto this wall, — one instant and no more

Admitted at my distant palace-door.

Afar the flowers of Enna from this drear

Cold fruit, which, tasted once, must thrall me here.

Afar those skies from this Tartarean grey

That chills me: and afar, how far away,

The nights that shall be from the days that were.

Afar from mine own self seem, and wing

Strange ways in thought, and listen for a sign:

And still some heart unto some soul doth pine,

(Whose sounds mine inner sense is fain to bring,

Continually together murmuring,) —

'Woe's me for thee, unhappy Proserpine'.

Proserpine

Dante Gabriel Rossetti