Strange that the self’s continuum should outlast br The Virgin, Aphrodite, and the Mourning Mother, br All loves and griefs, successive deities br That hold their kingdom in the human breast. br Abandoned by the gods, woman with an ageing body br That half remembers the Annunciation br The passion and the travail and the grief br That wore the mask of my humanity, br I marvel at the soul’s indifference. br For in her theatre the play is done, br The tears are shed; the actors, the immortals br In their ceaseless manifestation, elsewhere gone, br And I who have been Virgin and Aphrodite, br The mourning Isis and the queen of corn br Wait for the last mummer, dread Persephone br To dance my dust at last into the tomb.