SLOWLY, with day's dying fall,
And with many a solemn sound,
Slowly from the Athenian wall
The long procession wound.

Five days of the mystic nine,
Clad in solemn thought, were passed,
Ere the few could drink the wine
Or seek the height at last.

Then the chosen, young and old,
To Eleusis went their ways;
But no lip the tale has told
Of those mysterious days.

In the seer's hollow eye,
In the maiden's faithful soul,
In youth who did not fear to die,
Men saw that strange control.

Yet no voice the dreadful word,
Through these centuries of man,
Has made the sacred secret heard,
Or showed the hidden plan.

All the horrors born of death
Rose within that nine days' gloom,
Chasing forms of mortal breath
From awful room to room.

Deep through bowels of the earth
Fled those seekers of the dark,
Hearts that sought to find the birth
Of man's immortal spark.

In that moment of despair
Was revealed. But who may tell
How the Omnipotent declares
His truth that all is well?

Saw they forms of their own lost?
Heard they voices that have fled?
We know not, or know at most
Their joy was no more dead.

Light of resurrection gleamed,
In what shape we cannot hear;
Glory shone of the redeemed
Beyond this world of fear.

Old books say Demeter came
And smiled upon them, and her smile
Burned all their sorrow in its flame,
Yet left them here awhile.

Mother of the shadowed sphere,
Where we dwell and suffer now,
Lo! the initiate days are here,
Bright is thy dawn-lit brow.