Proserpine and Midas: Large Print
Mary Shelley
Paperback
(Independently published, March 20, 2020)
Pros. Dear Mother, leave me not! I love to rest Under the shadow of that hanging cave And listen to your tales. Your Proserpine Entreats you stay; sit on this shady bank, And as I twine a wreathe tell once again The combat of the Titans and the Gods; Or how the Python fell beneath the dart Of dread Apollo; or of Daphne’s change,– That coyest Grecian maid, whose pointed leaves Now shade her lover’s brow. And I the while Gathering the starry flowers of this fair plain Will weave a chaplet, Mother, for thy hair. But without thee, the plain I think is vacant, Its [Note: There is an apostrophe on the s.] blossoms fade,–its tall fresh grasses droop, Nodding their heads like dull things half asleep;– Go not, dear Mother, from your Proserpine.