What more natural, then, than that they should imagine that the earth goddess was mourning for the loss of something and refusing to attend to her duties?  And since the flowers, the special care of Ceres’s daughter, disappeared at the same time, it seemed most likely that it was this daughter who had disappeared, stolen and held captive underground.  When, each year, the time of her captivity was at an end, Ceres went joyfully back to her work, the flowers and grass once more appeared—­in a word, it was spring.

Looked at in a slightly different way, Proserpina represented the seed which is placed underground.  For a time it is held there, apparently gone forever; but at last it appears above the earth in fresher, brighter guise, just as the daughter of Ceres reappeared.

It is held by some that this myth is a symbol or allegory of the death of man and his ultimate resurrection.  That, however, does not seem extremely likely, as the ancients, although they believed in the life of the soul after death, conceived of that life as something far from pleasant, even for those who had led good lives.

The story of Proserpina has been used as a subject for many paintings.  One of the best-known of these is Rosetti’s “Persephone,” which shows her as she stands, sad-eyed, with the bitten fruit in her hand.

ORIGIN OF THE OPAL

A dewdrop came, with a spark of flame
  He had caught from the sun’s last ray,
To a violet’s breast, where he lay at rest
  Till the hours brought back the day.

The rose looked down, with a blush and frown;
  But she smiled all at once, to view
Her own bright form, with its coloring warm,
  Reflected back by the dew.

Then the stranger took a stolen look
  At the sky, so soft and blue;
And a leaflet green, with its silver sheen,
  Was seen by the idler too.

A cold north wind, as he thus reclined,
  Of a sudden raged around;
And a maiden fair, who was walking there,
  Next morning, an opal found.

IN TIME’S SWING

By Lucy Larcom

Father Time, your footsteps go
Lightly as the falling snow. 
In your swing I’m sitting, see! 
Push me softly; one, two, three,
Twelve times only.  Like a sheet,
Spread the snow beneath my feet. 
Singing merrily, let me swing
Out of winter into spring.

Swing me out, and swing me in! 
Trees are bare, but birds begin
Twittering to the peeping leaves,
On the bough beneath the eaves
Wait,—­one lilac bud I saw. 
Icy hillsides feel the thaw;
April chased off March to-day;
Now I catch a glimpse of May.

Oh, the smell of sprouting grass! 
In a blur the violets pass. 
Whispering from the wildwood come
Mayflower’s breath and insect’s hum. 
Roses carpeting the ground;
Thrushes, orioles, warbling sound: 
Swing me low, and swing me high,
To the warm clouds of July.