The Wrath of Demeter

Born on the islands that gleam in the sea, Born in contentment and born to be free, Raised in your midst with your faults as they be, Gone is my daughter, sweet Persephone. And any flower that blooms in any part, Has bloomed before that in my aching heart. And she had taught me - what the summer meant; And in her passing, is my summer spent. And every tree shall weep its leaves for her; Nor shall a single petal raise or stir; Nor shall my barren heart give any ease; And worthless gods with worthless men shall freeze! And you who lived so long upon my smile, Have stole its source, and shall now face my bile!