Sketch of one faceless woman in three different positions. The first position shows
                        the woman standing, with a hand on her
                        hip, next to a basket. The second position shows the woman turned with her arm outstretched
                        and holding the basket with an open
                        hand. Next to this position is another sketch of the woman’s hand holding the basket
                        but with a closed hand. The third position,
                        about 1/2 of the size of the other positions, shows the woman leaning towards the
                        basket. The woman is wearing a large, draping
                        cloth and has bare feet. Full-page illustration.
                     
                     
                     
                     Ave Imperatrix.


To thee, to thee, sombre Persephone,1
                              
                              Dread goddess with the sanguine pomegranate2
                              
                              Clasped in pale hands, and slumberous eyes of fate3
                              
                              Forth-gazing o’er unsunned infinity ;4
                              We from the whirlpool of life’s troubled sea,5
                              
                              Where passion tires and love is quenched by hate,6
                              
                              And cries ascend to scornful heaven too late,7
                              
                              And hope is merged in helpless misery :8
                              Bring this last prayer, Lady of dreams and death ;9
                           
                           Pay this last vow, Empress of sleep and hell
                                  ;10
                           
                           Breathe this last utterance of our spirit’s breath ;11
                           
                           Hang round thy altar-horns sere waifs and strays12
                           
                           Plucked from the grave of self beloved o’er-well,13
                           
                           And crown thy mute cold shrine with blasted bays.14