Pluto

The final realm is mine to rule
while Jove still holds his sway,
and justly rule—I am not cruel,
no matter what they say.

I see the wicked pay their dues:
At last by curb and rein
they take the path they would not choose
of virtue taught by pain.

But nothing harms the innocent;
they paid their fees above
who always in right pathways went.
They nothing lose but love,

for love is fed on memories
that time and flesh beget,
but here they drink the flowing springs
of Lethe and forget.

Though there was one, while yet she lacked
the waters of the shades,
whose lover came to take her back.
Like Phoebus’ self he played,

and I who have no mortal heart
(the gods are seldom moved)
was weeping sorely at his art—
but folly it was proved.

I gave him back the one he loved
but warned him not to look
until they reached the world above.
He vowed what he forsook.

For love is fed on looking back
to bear what lies ahead;
he could not brook the forward track
who’d seen her lying dead.

If love could live beyond the grave,
beyond its mortal need
to feed upon the love it craves,
the dead would all be freed.

But human hunger’s no such thing,
and death destroys love’s flame.
Returned, she drank of Lethe’s spring;
he went back whence he came.

As yet, my wings have never furled—
but something stops my breath.
Though I may rule the underworld,
what do I know of death?