Rather than darting to the glass to look outside, she lay quietly in the shadows and listened.“Heard melodies are sweet, yet those unheard are sweeter. Therefore, ye soft pipes play on…” His voice faded for a moment. “All breathing human passion far above—,”Keats. He was reciting Keats to Persephone. Ode on a Grecian Urn. That had been a favorite of hers. She remembered how the muses had danced when he’d written it; they’d been so bright, so powerful. He’d fed them well and died young. Demeter remembered that too, seeing them ghost around Olympus in their black flowing gowns, their mourning veils and their wails of sorrow.To be the object of such devotion to inspire such poetry. She wondered if Hades had whispered poetry to Persephone as well, if his words were sweet with soft touches. Demeter was dying anyway and Persephone’s misery hadn’t saved her. She hated her more for that, but hated herself too.“Golden absinthe mist will forget, Hemlock whispers passed to these love stained lips.”
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