Writhing vines were her only apparel.
Her body rippled like a serpent’s
As she crossed the lamenting ground
And entered the throne-place of monsters
Which stood in a loathsome glade.

It is said that a hundred years passed
While she lay in their hair-wreathed love —
Then, on a day of storm and mystery,
She walked back into the world
As young and quick as a new watch.