Demeter in the Sun

The hands of Beauty tend our garden soil,
Awaken life that slept through winter's frost.
Her cultivation knows the joy of toil--
How earth-stained hours revive green seasons lost.
As flora grows or withers, Beauty's care
Adores her charge or else she dissipates.
Her life and labors mark the singular,
In praise of earth, and spring's green propagates.
The works of Beauty breed autonomy--
A dance that celebrates regrets of May.
Conferrals voice her love's antinomy:
Devotion liberates an ardent slave.
An anguished soul alone may share her days;
Contentment merely catalogs a face.