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                               HELIODORA
                           _And Other Poems_




                               Heliodora
                           _And Other Poems
                               by_ H. D.

                          Boston and New York
                       Houghton Mifflin Company

                   MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN


                 MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
               BUTLER AND TANNER LTD., FROME AND LONDON


Acknowledgment for the permission to reprint certain poems is due to:
_Nation_, _Sphere_, _Egoist_ (London); _Bookman_, _Poetry_, _Double
Dealer_ (New York, Chicago, New Orleans); _Transatlantic_, _Gargoyle_
(Paris); _The Imagist Anthologies_ and the _Miscellany of American
Poetry_ (1922).




_Note_


The poem Lais has in italics a translation of the Plato epigram in the
Greek Anthology. Heliodora has in italics the two Meleager epigrams from
the Anthology. In Nossis is the translation of the opening lines of the
Garland of Meleager and the poem of Nossis herself in the Greek
Anthology. The four Sappho fragments are re-worked freely. The Odyssey
is a translation of the opening of the first book. The Ion is a
translation of the latter part of the first long choros of the Ion of
Euripides.




_Contents_


                                                                    PAGE

WASH OF COLD RIVER                                                    11

HOLY SATYR                                                            13

LAIS                                                                  15

HELIODORA                                                             18

HELEN                                                                 24

NOSSIS                                                                25

CENTAUR SONG                                                          29

OREAD                                                                 31

THE POOL                                                              32

THETIS                                                                33

AT ITHACA                                                             39

WE TWO                                                                42

FRAGMENT THIRTY-SIX                                                   44

FLUTE SONG                                                            48

AFTER TROY                                                            49

CASSANDRA                                                             51

EPIGRAMS                                                              55

FRAGMENT FORTY                                                        57

TOWARD THE PIRÆUS                                                     61

MOONRISE                                                              67

AT ELEUSIS                                                            68

FRAGMENT FORTY-ONE                                                    70

TELESILA                                                              76

FRAGMENT SIXTY-EIGHT                                                  81

LETHE                                                                 85

SITALKAS                                                              86

HERMONAX                                                              87

ORION DEAD                                                            89

CHARIOTEER                                                            91

THE LOOK-OUT                                                         102

ODYSSEY                                                              108

HYACINTH                                                             116

ION                                                                  124




    _Wash of cold river
    in a glacial land,
    Ionian water,
    chill, snow-ribbed sand,
    drift of rare flowers,
    clear, with delicate shell-
    like leaf enclosing
    frozen lily-leaf,
    camellia texture,
    colder than a rose;_

    _wind-flower
    that keeps the breath
    of the north-wind--
    these and none other;_

    _intimate thoughts and kind
    reach out to share
    the treasure of my mind,
    intimate hands and dear
    draw garden-ward and sea-ward
    all the sheer rapture
    that I would take
    to mould a clear
    and frigid statue;_

    _rare, of pure texture,
    beautiful space and line,
    marble to grace
    your inaccessible shrine._




        _Holy Satyr_


    Most holy Satyr,
    like a goat,
    with horns and hooves
    to match thy coat
    of russet brown,
    I make leaf-circlets
    and a crown of honey-flowers
    for thy throat;
    where the amber petals
    drip to ivory,
    I cut and slip
    each stiffened petal
    in the rift
    of carven petal;
    honey horn
    has wed the bright
    virgin petal of the white
    flower cluster: lip to lip
    let them whisper,
    let them lilt, quivering.

    Most holy Satyr,
    like a goat,
    hear this our song,
    accept our leaves,
    love-offering,
    return our hymn,
    like echo fling
    a sweet song,
    answering note for note.




        _Lais_


    Let her who walks in Paphos
    take the glass,
    let Paphos take the mirror
    and the work of frosted fruit,
    gold apples set
    with silver apple-leaf,
    white leaf of silver
    wrought with vein of gilt.

    Let Paphos lift the mirror,
    let her look
    into the polished centre of the disk.

    Let Paphos take the mirror;
    did she press
    flowerlet of flame-flower
    to the lustrous white
    of the white forehead?
    did the dark veins beat
    a deeper purple
    than the wine-deep tint
    of the dark flower?

    Did she deck black hair
    one evening, with the winter-white
    flower of the winter-berry,
    did she look (reft of her lover)
    at a face gone white
    under the chaplet
    of white virgin-breath?

    Lais, exultant, tyrannizing Greece,
    Lais who kept her lovers in the porch,
    lover on lover waiting,
    (but to creep
    where the robe brushed the threshold
    where still sleeps Lais,)
    so she creeps, Lais,
    to lay her mirror at the feet
    of her who reigns in Paphos.

    Lais has left her mirror
    for she sees no longer in its depth
    the Lais’ self
    that laughed exultant
    tyrannizing Greece.

    Lais has left her mirror,
    for she weeps no longer,
    finding in its depth,
    a face, but other
    than dark flame and white
    feature of perfect marble.

    _Lais has left her mirror_,
    (so one wrote)
    _to her who reigns in Paphos;
    Lais who laughed a tyrant over Greece,
    Lais who turned the lovers from the porch,
    that swarm for whom now
    Lais has no use;
    Lais is now no lover of the glass,
    seeing no more the face as once it was,
    wishing to see that face and finding this_.




        _Heliodora_


    He and I sought together,
    over the spattered table,
    rhymes and flowers,
    gifts for a name.

    He said, among others,
    I will bring
    (and the phrase was just and good,
    but not as good as mine,)
    “the narcissus that loves the rain.”

    We strove for a name,
    while the light of the lamps burnt thin
    and the outer dawn came in,
    a ghost, the last at the feast
    or the first,
    to sit within
    with the two that remained
    to quibble in flowers and verse
    over a girl’s name.

    He said, “the rain loving,”
    I said, “the narcissus, drunk,
    drunk with the rain.”

    Yet I had lost
    for he said,
    “the rose, the lover’s gift,
    is loved of love,”
    he said it,
    “loved of love;”
    I waited, even as he spoke,
    to see the room filled with a light,
    as when in winter
    the embers catch in a wind
    when a room is dank;
    so it would be filled, I thought,
    our room with a light
    when he said
    (and he said it first,)
    “the rose, the lover’s delight,
    is loved of love,”
    but the light was the same.

    Then he caught,
    seeing the fire in my eyes,
    my fire, my fever, perhaps,
    for he leaned
    with the purple wine
    stained on his sleeve,
    and said this:
    “did you ever think
    a girl’s mouth
    caught in a kiss,
    is a lily that laughs?”

    I had not.
    I saw it now
    as men must see it forever afterwards;
    no poet could write again,
    “the red-lily,
    a girl’s laugh caught in a kiss;”
    it was his to pour in the vat
    from which all poets dip and quaff,
    for poets are brothers in this.

    So I saw the fire in his eyes,
    it was almost my fire,
    (he was younger,)
    I saw the face so white,
    my heart beat,
    it was almost my phrase;
    I said, “surprise the muses,
    take them by surprise;
    it is late,
    rather it is dawn-rise,
    those ladies sleep, the nine,
    our own king’s mistresses.”

    A name to rhyme,
    flowers to bring to a name,
    what was one girl faint and shy,
    with eyes like the myrtle,
    (I said: “her underlids
    are rather like myrtle,”)
    to vie with the nine?

    Let him take the name,
    he had the rhymes,
    “the rose, loved of love,
    the lily, a mouth that laughs,”
    he had the gift,
    “the scented crocus,
    the purple hyacinth,”
    what was one girl to the nine?

    He said:
    “I will make her a wreath;”
    he said:
    “I will write it thus:

    _I will bring you the lily that laughs,_
    _I will twine_
    _with soft narcissus, the myrtle,_
    _sweet crocus, white violet,_
    _the purple hyacinth, and last,_
    _the rose, loved-of-love,_
    _that these may drip on your hair_
    _the less soft flowers,_
    _may mingle sweet with the sweet_
    _of Heliodora’s locks,_
    _myrrh-curled._”

    (He wrote myrrh-curled,
    I think, the first.)

    I said:
    “they sleep, the nine,”
    when he shouted swift and passionate:
    “_that_ for the nine!
    above the hills
    the sun is about to wake,
    _and to-day white violets_
    _shine beside white lilies_
    _adrift on the mountain side;_
    _to-day the narcissus opens_
    _that loves the rain_.”

    I watched him to the door,
    catching his robe
    as the wine-bowl crashed to the floor,
    spilling a few wet lees,
    (ah, his purple hyacinth!)
    I saw him out of the door,
    I thought:
    there will never be a poet
    in all the centuries after this,
    who will dare write,
    after my friend’s verse,
    “a girl’s mouth
    is a lily kissed.”




        _Helen_


    All Greece hates
    the still eyes in the white face,
    the lustre as of olives
    where she stands,
    and the white hands.

    All Greece reviles
    the wan face when she smiles,
    hating it deeper still
    when it grows wan and white,
    remembering past enchantments
    and past ills.

    Greece sees unmoved,
    God’s daughter, born of love,
    the beauty of cool feet
    and slenderest knees,
    could love indeed the maid,
    only if she were laid,
    white ash amid funereal cypresses.




        _Nossis_


    I thought to hear him speak
    the girl might rise
    and make the garden silver,
    as the white moon breaks,
    “Nossis,” he cried, “a flame.”

    I said:
    “a girl that’s dead
    some hundred years;
    a poet--what of that?
    for in the islands,
    in the haunts of Greek Ionia,
    Rhodes and Cyprus,
    girls are cheap.”

    I said, to test his mood,
    to make him rage or laugh or sing or weep,
    “in Greek Ionia and in Cyprus,
    many girls are found
    with wreaths and apple-branches.”

    “Only a hundred years or two or three,
    has she lain dead
    yet men forget;”
    he said,
    “I want a garden,”
    and I thought
    he wished to make a terrace on the hill,
    bend the stream to it,
    set out daffodils,
    plant Phrygian violets,
    such was his will and whim,
    I thought,
    to name and watch each flower.

    His was no garden
    bright with Tyrian violets,
    his was a shelter
    wrought of flame and spirit,
    and as he flung her name
    against the dark,
    I thought the iris-flowers
    that lined the path
    must be the ghost of Nossis.

    “_Who made the wreath,_
    _for what man was it wrought?_
    _speak, fashioned all of fruit-buds,_
    _song, my loveliest,_
    _say Meleager brought to Diodes_,
    (_a gift for that enchanting friend_)
    _memories with names of poets._

    _He sought for Moero, lilies,
    and those many,
    red-lilies for Anyte,
    for Sappho, roses,
    with those few, he caught
    that breath of the sweet-scented
    leaf of iris,
    the myrrh-iris,
    to set beside the tablet
    and the wax
    which Love had burnt,
    when scarred across by Nossis._”

    when she wrote:

    “_I Nossis stand by this:
    I state that love is sweet:
    if you think otherwise
    assert what beauty
    or what charm_
    _after the charm of love,
    retains its grace?_

    _“Honey” you say:
    honey? I say “I spit
    honey out of my mouth:
    nothing is second-best
    after the sweet of Eros.”_

    _I Nossis stand and state
    that he whom Love neglects
    has naught, no flower, no grace,
    who lacks that rose, her kiss._”

    I thought to hear him speak
    the girl might rise
    and make the garden silver
    as the white moon breaks,
    “Nossis,” he cried, “a flame.”




        _Centaur Song_


    Now that the day is done,
    now that the night creeps soft
    and dims the chestnut clusters’
    radiant spike of flower,
    O sweet, till dawn
    break through the branches
    of our orchard-garden,
    rest in this shelter
    of the osier-wood and thorn.

    They fall,
    the apple-flowers;
    nor softer grace has Aphrodite
    in the heaven afar,
    nor at so fair a pace
    open the flower-petals
    as your face bends down,
    while, breath on breath,
    your mouth wanders
    from my mouth o’er my face.

    What have I left
    to bring you in this place,
    already sweet with violets?
    (those you brought
    with swathes of earliest grass,
    forest and meadow balm,
    flung from your giant arms
    for us to rest upon.)

    Fair are these petals
    broken by your feet;
    your horse’s hooves
    tread softer than a deer’s;
    your eyes, startled,
    are like the deer eyes
    while your heart
    trembles more than the deer.

    O earth, O god,
    O forest, stream or river,
    what shall I bring
    that all the day hold back,
    that Dawn remember Love
    and rest upon her bed,
    and Zeus, forgetful not of Danæ or Maia,

    bid the stars shine forever.




        _Oread_


    Whirl up, sea--
    whirl your pointed pines,
    splash your great pines
    on our rocks,
    hurl your green over us,
    cover us with your pools of fir.




        _The Pool_


    Are you alive?
    I touch you.
    You quiver like a sea-fish.
    I cover you with my net.
    What are you--banded one?




        _Thetis_


    He had asked for immortal life
    in the old days and had grown old,
    now he had aged apace,
    he asked for his youth,
    and I, Thetis, granted him

    freedom under the sea
    drip and welter of weeds,
    the drift of the fringing grass,
    the gift of the never-withering moss,
    and the flowering reed,

    and most,
    beauty of fifty nereids,
    sisters of nine,
    I one of their least,
    yet great and a goddess,
    granted Pelius,

    love under the sea,
    beauty, grace infinite:

    So I crept, at last,
    a crescent, a curve of a wave,
    (a man would have thought,
    had he watched for his nets
    on the beach)
    a dolphin, a glistening fish,
    that burnt and caught for its light,
    the light of the undercrest
    of the lifting tide,
    a fish with silver for breast,
    with no light but the light
    of the sea it reflects.

    Little he would have guessed,
    (had such a one
    watched by his nets,)
    that a goddess flung from the crest
    of the wave the blue of its own
    bright tress of hair,
    the blue of the painted stuff
    it wore for dress.

    No man would have known save he,
    whose coming I sensed as I strung
    my pearl and agate and pearl,
    to mark the beat and the stress
    of the lilt of my song.

    _Who dreams of a son,
    save one,
    childless, having no bright
    face to flatter its own,
    who dreams of a son?_

    _Nereids under the sea,
    my sisters, fifty and one_,
    (_counting myself_)
    _they dream of a child
    of water and sea,
    with hair of the softest,
    to lie along the curve
    of fragile, tiny bones,
    yet more beautiful each than each,
    hair more bright and long,
    to rival its own._

    _Nereids under the wave,
    who dreams of a son
    save I, Thetis, alone?_

    _Each would have for a child,
    a stray self, furtive and wild,
    to dive and leap to the wind,
    to wheedle and coax_
    _the stray birds bright and bland
    of foreign strands,
    to crawl and stretch on the sands,
    each would have for its own,
    a daughter for child._

    _Who dreams, who sings of a son?
    I, Thetis, alone._

    When I had finished my song,
    and dropped the last seed-pearl,
    and flung the necklet
    about my throat
    and found it none too bright,
    not bright enough nor pale
    enough, not like the moon that creeps
    beneath the sea,
    between the lift of crest and crest,
    had tried it on
    and found it not
    quite fair enough
    to fill the night
    of my blue folds of bluest dress
    with moon for light,
    I cast the beads aside and leapt,
    myself all blue
    with no bright gloss
    of pearls for crescent light;

    but one alert, all blue and wet,
    I flung myself, an arrow’s flight,
    straight upward
    through the blue of night
    that was my palace wall,
    and crept to where I saw the mark
    of feet, a rare foot-fall:

    Achilles’ sandal on the beach,
    could one mistake?
    perhaps a lover or a nymph,
    lost from the tangled fern and brake,
    that lines the upper shelf of land,
    perhaps a goddess or a nymph
    might so mistake
    Achilles’ footprint for the trace
    of a bright god alert to track
    the panther where he slinks for thirst
    across the sand;

    perhaps a goddess or a nymph,
    might think a god had crossed the track
    of weed and drift,
    had broken here this stem of reed,
    had turned this sea-shell to the light:

    So she must stoop, this goddess girl,
    or nymph, with crest of blossoming wood
    about her hair for cap or crown,
    must stoop and kneel and bending down,
    must kiss the print of such a one.

    Not I, the mother, Thetis self,
    I stretched and lay, a river’s slim
    dark length,
    a rivulet where it leaves the wood,
    and meets the sea,
    I lay along the burning sand,
    a river’s blue.




        _At Ithaca_


    Over and back,
    the long waves crawl
    and track the sand with foam;
    night darkens and the sea
    takes on that desperate tone
    of dark that wives put on
    when all their love is done.

    Over and back,
    the tangled thread falls slack,
    over and up and on;
    over and all is sewn;
    now while I bind the end,
    I wish some fiery friend
    would sweep impetuously
    these fingers from the loom.

    My weary thoughts
    play traitor to my soul,
    just as the toil is over;
    swift while the woof is whole,
    turn now my spirit, swift,
    and tear the pattern there,
    the flowers so deftly wrought,
    the border of sea-blue,
    the sea-blue coast of home.

    The web was over-fair,
    that web of pictures there,
    enchantments that I thought
    he had, that I had lost;
    weaving his happiness
    within the stitching frame,
    weaving his fire and fame,
    I thought my work was done,
    I prayed that only one
    of those that I had spurned,
    might stoop and conquer this
    long waiting with a kiss.

    But each time that I see
    my work so beautifully
    inwoven and would keep
    the picture and the whole,
    Athene steels my soul,
    slanting across my brain,
    I see as shafts of rain
    his chariot and his shafts,
    I see the arrows fall,
    I see my lord who moves
    like Hector, lord of love,
    I see him matched with fair
    bright rivals and I see
    those lesser rivals flee.




        _We Two_


    We two are left:
    I with small grace reveal
    distaste and bitterness;
    you with small patience
    take my hands;
    though effortless,
    you scald their weight
    as a bowl, lined with embers,
    wherein droop
    great petals of white rose,
    forced by the heat
    too soon to break.

    We two are left:
    as a blank wall, the world,
    earth and the men who talk,
    saying their space of life
    is good and gracious,
    with eyes blank
    as that blank surface
    their ignorance mistakes
    for final shelter
    and a resting-place.

    We two remain:
    yet by what miracle,
    searching within the tangles of my brain,
    I ask again,
    have we two met within
    this maze of dædal paths
    in-wound mid grievous stone,
    where once I stood alone?




        _Fragment Thirty-six_

    I know not what to do:
      my mind is divided.


            SAPPHO


    I know not what to do,
    my mind is reft:
    is song’s gift best?
    is love’s gift loveliest?
    I know not what to do,
    now sleep has pressed
    weight on your eyelids.

    Shall I break your rest,
    devouring, eager?
    is love’s gift best?
    nay, song’s the loveliest:
    yet were you lost,
    what rapture
    could I take from song?
    what song were left?

    I know not what to do:
    to turn and slake
    the rage that burns,
    with my breath burn
    and trouble your cool breath?
    so shall I turn and take
    snow in my arms?
    (is love’s gift best?)
    yet flake on flake
    of snow were comfortless,
    did you lie wondering,
    wakened yet unawake.

    Shall I turn and take
    comfortless snow within my arms?
    press lips to lips
    that answer not,
    press lips to flesh
    that shudders not nor breaks?

    Is love’s gift best?
    shall I turn and slake
    all the wild longing?
    O I am eager for you!
    as the Pleiads shake
    white light in whiter water
    so shall I take you?

    My mind is quite divided,
    my minds hesitate,
    so perfect matched,
    I know not what to do:
    each strives with each
    as two white wrestlers
    standing for a match,
    ready to turn and clutch
    yet never shake muscle nor nerve nor tendon;
    so my mind waits
    to grapple with my mind,
    yet I lie quiet,
    I would seem at rest.

    I know not what to do:
    strain upon strain,
    sound surging upon sound
    makes my brain blind;
    as a wave-line may wait to fall
    yet (waiting for its falling)
    still the wind may take
    from off its crest,
    white flake on flake of foam,
    that rises,
    seeming to dart and pulse
    and rend the light,
    so my mind hesitates
    above the passion
    quivering yet to break,
    so my mind hesitates
    above my mind,
    listening to song’s delight.

    I know not what to do:
    will the sound break,
    rending the night
    with rift on rift of rose
    and scattered light?
    will the sound break at last
    as the wave hesitant,
    or will the whole night pass
    and I lie listening awake?




        _Flute Song_


    Little scavenger away,
    touch not the door,
    beat not the portal down,
    cross not the sill,
    silent until
    my song, bright and shrill,
    breathes out its lay.

    Little scavenger avaunt,
    tempt me with jeer and taunt,
    yet you will wait to-day;
    for it were surely ill
    to mock and shout and revel;
    it were more fit to tell
    with flutes and calathes,
    your mother’s praise.




        _After Troy_


    We flung against their gods,
    invincible, clear hate;
    we fought;
    frantic, we flung the last
    imperious, desperate shaft

    and lost:
    we knew the loss
    before they ever guessed
    fortune had tossed to them
    her favour and her whim;
    but how were we depressed?
    we lost yet as we pressed
    our spearsmen on their best,
    we knew their line invincible
    because there fell
    on them no shiverings
    of the white enchanteress,
    radiant Aphrodite’s spell:

    we hurled our shafts of passion,
    noblest hate,
    and knew their cause was blest,
    and knew their gods were nobler,
    better taught in skill,
    subtler with wit of thought,
    yet had it been God’s will
    that _they_ not we should fall,
    we know those fields had bled
    with roses lesser red.




        _Cassandra_

        _O Hymen king._


    Hymen, O Hymen king,
    what bitter thing is this?
    what shaft, tearing my heart?
    what scar, what light, what fire
    searing my eye-balls and my eyes with flame?
    nameless, O spoken name,
    king, lord, speak blameless Hymen.

    Why do you blind my eyes?
    why do you dart and pulse
    till all the dark is home,
    then find my soul
    and ruthless draw it back?
    scaling the scaleless,
    opening the dark?
    speak, nameless, power and might;
    when will you leave me quite?
    when will you break my wings
    or leave them utterly free
    to scale heaven endlessly?

    A bitter, broken thing,
    my heart, O Hymen lord,
    yet neither drought nor sword
    baffles men quite,
    why must they feign to fear
    my virgin glance?
    feigned utterly or real
    why do they shrink?
    my trance frightens them,
    breaks the dance,
    empties the market place;
    if I but pass they fall
    back, frantically;
    must always people mock?
    unless they shrink and reel
    as in the temple
    at your uttered will.

    O Hymen king,
    lord, greatest, power, might,
    look for my face is dark,
    burnt with your light,
    your fire, O Hymen lord;
    is there none left
    can equal me
    in ecstasy, desire?
    is there none left
    can bear with me
    the kiss of your white fire?
    is there not one,
    Phrygian or frenzied Greek,
    poet, song-swept, or bard,
    one meet to take from me
    this bitter power of song,
    one fit to speak, Hymen,
    your praises, lord?

    May I not wed
    as you have wed?
    may it not break, beauty,
    from out my hands, my head, my feet?
    may Love not lie beside me
    till his heat
    burn me to ash?
    may he not comfort me, then,
    spent of all that fire and heat,
    still, ashen-white and cool
    as the wet laurels,
    white, before your feet
    step on the mountain-slope,
    before your fiery hand
    lift up the mantle
    covering flower and land,
    as a man lifts,
    O Hymen, from his bride,
    (cowering with woman eyes,) the veil?
    O Hymen lord, be kind.




        _Epigrams_


        1

    O ruthless, perilous, imperious hate,
    you can not thwart
    the promptings of my soul,
    you can not weaken nay nor dominate
    Love that is mateless,
    Love the rite,
    the whole measure of being:
    would you crush with bondage?
    nay, you would love me not
    were I your slave.


        2

    Torture me not with this or that or this,
    Love is my master,
    you his lesser self;
    while you are Love,
    I love you generously,
    be Eros,
    not a tyrannous, bitter mate:
    Love has no charm
    when Love is swept to earth:
    you’d make a lop-winged god,
    frozen and contrite,
    of god up-darting,
    winged for passionate flight.




        _Fragment Forty_

        _Love ... bitter-sweet._

             SAPPHO


        1

    Keep love and he wings
    with his bow,
    up, mocking us,
    keep love and he taunts us
    and escapes.

    Keep love and he sways apart
    in another world,
    outdistancing us.

    Keep love and he mocks,
    ah, bitter and sweet,
    your sweetness is more cruel
    than your hurt.

    Honey and salt,
    fire burst from the rocks
    to meet fire
    spilt from Hesperus.

    Fire darted aloft and met fire:
    in that moment
    love entered us.


        2

    Could Eros be kept?
    he were prisoned long since
    and sick with imprisonment;
    could Eros be kept?
    others would have broken
    and crushed out his life.

    Could Eros be kept?
    we too sinning, by Kypris,
    might have prisoned him outright.

    Could Eros be kept?
    nay, thank him and the bright goddess
    that he left us.


        3

    Ah, love is bitter and sweet,
    but which is more sweet,
    the sweetness
    or the bitterness?
    none has spoken it.

    Love is bitter,
    but can salt taint sea-flowers,
    grief, happiness?

    Is it bitter to give back
    love to your lover
    if he crave it?

    Is it bitter to give back
    love to your lover
    if he wish it
    for a new favourite?
    who can say,
    or is it sweet?

    Is it sweet
    to possess utterly?
    or is it bitter,
    bitter as ash?


        4

    I had thought myself frail;
    a petal,
    with light equal
    on leaf and under-leaf.

    I had thought myself frail;
    a lamp,
    shell, ivory or crust of pearl,
    about to fall shattered,
    with flame spent.

    I cried:
    “I must perish,
    I am deserted,
    an outcast, desperate
    in this darkness,”
    (such fire rent me with Hesperus,)
    then the day broke.


        5

    What need of a lamp
    when day lightens us,
    what need to bind love
    when love stands
    with such radiant wings
    over us?

    What need--
    yet to sing love,
    love must first shatter us.




        _Toward the Piræus_


    _Slay with your eyes, Greek,
    men over the face of the earth,
    slay with your eyes, the host,
    puny, passionless, weak._

    _Break as the ranks of steel
    broke when the Persian lost:
    craven, we hated them then:
    now we would count them Gods
    beside these, spawn of the earth._

    _Grant us your mantle, Greek;
    grant us but one
    to fright (as your eyes) with a sword,
    men, craven and weak,
    grant us but one to strike
    one blow for you, passionate Greek._


        1

    You would have broken my wings,
    but the very fact that you knew
    I had wings, set some seal
    on my bitter heart, my heart
    broke and fluttered and sang.

    You would have snared me,
    and scattered the strands of my nest;
    but the very fact that you saw,
    sheltered me, claimed me,
    set me apart from the rest

    Of men--of _men_, made you a god,
    and me, claimed me, set me apart
    and the song in my breast,
    yours, yours forever--
    if I escape your evil heart.


        2

    I loved you:
    men have writ and women have said
    they loved,
    but as the Pythoness stands by the altar,
    intense and may not move,

    till the fumes pass over;
    and may not falter or break,
    till the priest has caught the words
    that mar or make
    a deme or a ravaged town;
    so I, though my knees tremble,
    my heart break,
    must note the rumbling,
    heed only the shuddering
    down in the fissure beneath the rock
    of the temple floor;

    must wait and watch
    and may not turn nor move,
    nor break from my trance to speak
    so slight, so sweet,
    so simple a word as love.


        3

    What had you done
    had you been true,
    I can not think,
    I may not know.

    What could we do
    were I not wise,
    what play invent,
    what joy devise?

    What could we do
    if you were great?

    (Yet were you lost,
    who were there then,
    to circumvent
    the tricks of men?)

    What can we do,
    for curious lies
    have filled your heart,
    and in my eyes
    sorrow has writ
    that I am wise.


        4

    If I had been a boy,
    I would have worshipped your grace,
    I would have flung my worship
    before your feet,
    I would have followed apart,
    glad, rent with an ecstasy
    to watch you turn
    your great head, set on the throat,
    thick, dark with its sinews,
    burned and wrought
    like the olive stalk,
    and the noble chin
    and the throat.

    I would have stood,
    and watched and watched
    and burned,
    and when in the night,
    from the many hosts, your slaves,
    and warriors and serving men
    you had turned
    to the purple couch and the flame
    of the woman, tall like the cypress tree
    that flames sudden and swift and free
    as with crackle of golden resin
    and cones and the locks flung free
    like the cypress limbs,
    bound, caught and shaken and loosed,
    bound, caught and riven and bound
    and loosened again,
    as in rain of a kingly storm
    or wind full from a desert plain.

    So, when you had risen
    from all the lethargy of love and its heat,
    you would have summoned me,
    me alone,
    and found my hands,
    beyond all the hands in the world,
    cold, cold, cold,
    intolerably cold and sweet.


        5

    It was not chastity that made me cold nor fear,
    only I knew that you, like myself, were sick
    of the puny race that crawls and quibbles and lisps
    of love and love and lovers and love’s deceit.

    It was not chastity that made me wild, but fear
    that my weapon, tempered in different heat,
    was over-matched by yours, and your hand
    skilled to yield death-blows, might break

    With the slightest turn--no ill will meant--
    my own lesser, yet still somewhat fine-wrought,
    fiery-tempered, delicate, over-passionate steel.




        _Moonrise_


    Will you glimmer on the sea?
    will you fling your spear-head
    on the shore?
    what note shall we pitch?
    we have a song,
    on the bank we share our arrows;
    the loosed string tells our note:

    O flight,
    bring her swiftly to our song.
    she is great,
    we measure her by the pine trees.




        _At Eleusis_


    _What they did,
    they did for Dionysos,
    for ecstasy’s sake:_

    now take the basket,
    think;
    think of the moment you count
    most foul in your life;
    conjure it,
    supplicate,
    pray to it;
    your face is bleak, you retract,
    you dare not remember it:

    stop;
    it is too late.
    the next stands by the altar step,
    a child’s face yet not innocent,
    it will prove adequate, but you,
    I could have spelt your peril at the gate,
    yet for your mind’s sake,
    though you could not enter,
    wait.

    _What they did,
    they did for Dionysos,
    for ecstasy’s sake:_

    Now take the basket basket--
    (ah face in a dream,
    did I not know your heart,
    I would falter,
    for each that fares onward
    is my child;
    ah can you wonder
    that my hands shake,
    that my knees tremble,
    I a mortal, set in the goddess’ place?)




        _Fragment Forty-one_

        _ ... thou flittest to Andromeda._

             SAPPHO


        1

    Am I blind alas,
    am I blind?
    I too have followed
    her path.
    I too have bent at her feet.
    I too have wakened to pluck
    amaranth in the straight shaft,
    amaranth purple in the cup,
    scorched at the edge to white.

    Am I blind?
    am I the less ready for her sacrifice?
    am I the less eager to give
    what she asks,
    she the shameless and radiant?

    Am I quite lost,
    I towering above you and her glance,
    walking with swifter pace,
    with clearer sight,
    with intensity
    beside which you two
    are as spent ash?

    Nay, I give back to the goddess the gift
    she tendered me in a moment
    of great bounty.
    I return it. I lay it again
    on the white slab of her house,
    the beauty she cast out
    one moment, careless.

    Nor do I cry out:
    “why did I stoop?
    why did I turn aside
    one moment from the rocks
    marking the sea-path?
    Aphrodite, shameless and radiant,
    have pity, turn, answer us.”

    Ah no--though I stumble toward
    her altar-step,
    though my flesh is scorched and rent,
    shattered, cut apart,
    slashed open;
    though my heels press my own wet life
    black, dark to purple,
    on the smooth, rose-streaked
    threshold of her pavement.


        2

    Am I blind alas, deaf too
    that my ears lost all this?
    nay, O my lover,
    shameless and still radiant,
    I tell you this:

    I was not asleep,
    I did not lie asleep on those hot rocks
    while you waited.
    I was not unaware when I glanced
    out toward the sea
    watching the purple ships.

    I was not blind when I turned.
    I was not indifferent when I strayed aside
    or loitered as we three went
    or seemed to turn a moment from the path
    for that same amaranth.

    I was not dull and dead when I fell
    back on our couch at night.
    I was not indifferent when I turned
    and lay quiet.
    I was not dead in my sleep.


        3

    Lady of all beauty,
    I give you this:
    say I have offered small sacrifice,
    say I am unworthy your touch,
    but say not:
    “she turned to some cold, calm god,
    silent, pitiful, in preference.”

    Lady of all beauty,
    I give you this:
    say not:
    “she deserted my altar-step,
    the fire on my white hearth
    was too great,
    she fell back at my first glance.”

    Lady, radiant and shameless,
    I have brought small wreaths,
    (they were a child’s gift,)
    I have offered myrrh-leaf,
    crisp lentisk,
    I have laid rose-petal
    and white rock-rose from the beach.

    But I give now a greater,
    I give life and spirit with this.
    I render a grace
    no one has dared to speak,
    lest men at your altar greet him
    as slave, callous to your art;
    I dare more than the singer
    offering her lute,
    the girl her stained veils,
    the woman her swathes of birth,
    or pencil and chalk,
    mirror and unguent box.

    I offer more than the lad
    singing at your steps,
    praise of himself,
    his mirror his friend’s face,
    more than any girl,
    I offer you this:
    (grant only strength
    that I withdraw not my gift,)
    I give you my praise and this:
    the love of my lover
    for his mistress.




        _Telesila_

    _In Argos--that statue of her;
    at her feet the scroll of her
    love-poetry, in her hand a helmet._


    War is a fevered god
    who takes alike
    maiden and king and clod,
    and yet another one,
    (ah withering peril!)
    deprives alike,
    with equal skill,
    alike indifferently,
    hoar spearsman of his shaft,
    wan maiden of her zone,
    even he,
    Love who is great War’s
    very over-lord.

    War bent
    and kissed the forehead,
    yet Love swift,
    planted on chin
    and tenderest cyclamen lift
    of fragrant mouth,
    fevered and honeyed breath,
    breathing o’er and o’er
    those tendrils of her hair,
    soft kisses
    like bright flowers.

    Love took
    and laid the sweet,
    (being extravagant,)
    on lip and chin and cheek,
    but ah he failed
    even he,
    before the luminous eyes
    that dart
    no suave appeal,
    alas, impelling me
    to brave incontinent,
    grave Pallas’ high command.

    And yet the mouth!
    ah Love ingratiate,
    how was it you,
    so poignant, swift and sure,
    could not have taken all
    and left me free,
    free to desert the Argives,
    let them burn,
    free yet to turn
    and let the city fall:
    yea, let high War
    take all his vengeful way,
    for what am I?
    I cannot save nor stay
    the city’s fall.

    War is a fevered god,
    (yet who has writ as she
    the power of Love?)
    War bent and kissed the forehead,
    that bright brow,
    ignored the chin
    and the sweet mouth,
    for that and the low laugh were his,
    Eros ingratiate,
    who sadly missed
    in all the kisses count,
    those eyebrows
    and swart eyes,
    O valiant one
    who bowed
    falsely and vilely trapped us,
    traitorous lord.

    And yet,
    (remembrance mocks,)
    should I have bent the maiden
    to a kiss?
    Ares the lover
    or enchanting Love?
    but had I moved
    I feared
    for that astute regard;
    for that bright vision,
    how might I have erred?
    I might have marred and swept
    another not so sweet
    into my exile;
    I might have kept a look
    recalling many and many a woman’s look,
    not this alone,
    astute, imperious, proud.

    And yet
    I turn and ask
    again, again, again,
    who march to death,
    what was it worth,
    reserve and pride and hurt?
    what is it worth
    to such as I
    who turn to meet
    the invincible Spartans’
    massed and serried host?
    what had it cost, a kiss?




        _Fragment Sixty-eight_

        _ ... even in the house of Hades._

                 SAPPHO


        1

    I envy you your chance of death,
    how I envy you this.
    I am more covetous of him
    even than of your glance,
    I wish more from his presence
    though he torture me in a grasp,
    terrible, intense.

    Though he clasp me in an embrace
    that is set against my will
    and rack me with his measure,
    effortless yet full of strength,
    and slay me
    in that most horrible contest,
    still, how I envy you your chance.

    Though he pierce me--imperious--
    iron--fever--dust--
    though beauty is slain
    when I perish,
    I envy you death.

    What is beauty to me?
    has she not slain me enough,
    have I not cried in agony of love,
    birth, hate,
    in pride crushed?

    What is left after this?
    what can death loose in me
    after your embrace?
    your touch,
    your limbs are more terrible
    to do me hurt.

    What can death mar in me
    that you have not?


        2

    What can death send me
    that you have not?
    you gathered violets,
    you spoke:
    “your hair is not less black,
    nor less fragrant,
    nor in your eyes is less light,
    your hair is not less sweet
    with purple in the lift of lock;”
    why were those slight words
    and the violets you gathered
    of such worth?

    How I envy you death;
    what could death bring,
    more black, more set with sparks
    to slay, to affright,
    than the memory of those first violets,
    the chance lift of your voice,
    the chance blinding frenzy
    as you bent?


        3

    So the goddess has slain me
    for your chance smile
    and my scarf unfolding
    as you stooped to it;
    so she trapped me
    with the upward sweep of your arm
    as you lifted the veil,
    and the swift smile and selfless.

    Could I have known?
    nay, spare pity,
    though I break,
    crushed under the goddess’ hate,
    though I fall beaten at last,
    so high have I thrust my glance
    up into her presence.

    Do not pity me, spare that,
    but how I envy you
    your chance of death.




        _Lethe_


    Nor skin nor hide nor fleece
    Shall cover you,
    Nor curtain of crimson nor fine
    Shelter of cedar-wood be over you,
        Nor the fir-tree
        Nor the pine.

    Nor sight of whin nor gorse
        Nor river-yew,
    Nor fragrance of flowering bush,
    Nor wailing of reed-bird to waken you,
        Nor of linnet,
        Nor of thrush.

    Nor word nor touch nor sight
        Of lover, you
    Shall long through the night but for this:
    The roll of the full tide to cover you
        Without question,
        Without kiss.




        _Sitalkas_


    Thou art come at length
    more beautiful
    than any cool god
    in a chamber under
    Lycia’s far coast,
    than any high god
    who touches us not
    here in the seeded grass:
    aye, than Argestes
    scattering the broken leaves.




        _Hermonax_


    Gods of the sea;
    Ino,
    leaving warm meads
    for the green, grey-green fastnesses
    of the great deeps;
    and Palemon,
    bright seeker of sea-shaft,
    hear me.

    Let all whom the sea loves,
    come to its altar front,
    and I
    who can offer no other sacrifice to thee
    bring this.

    Broken by great waves,
    the wavelets flung it here,
    this sea-gliding creature,
    this strange creature like a weed,
    covered with salt foam,
    torn from the hillocks of rock.

    I, Hermonax,
    caster of nets,
    risking chance,
    plying the sea craft,
    came on it.

    Thus to sea god,
    gift of sea wrack;
    I, Hermonax, offer it
    to thee, Ino,
    and to Palemon.




        _Orion Dead_


(Artemis speaks.)

    The cornel-trees
    uplift from the furrows,
    the roots at their bases,
    strike lower through the barley-sprays.

    So arise and face me.
    I am poisoned with the rage of song.

      I once pierced the flesh
      of the wild deer,
      now I am afraid to touch
      the blue and the gold-veined hyacinths?

      I will tear the full flowers
      and the little heads
      of the grape-hyacinths,
      I will strip the life from the bulb
      until the ivory layers
      lie like narcissus petals
      on the black earth.

      Arise,
      lest I bend an ash-tree
      into a taut bow,
      and slay--and tear
      all the roots from the earth.

      The cornel-wood blazes
      and strikes through the barley-sprays
      but I have lost heart for this.

      I break a staff,
      I break the tough branch.
      I know no light in the woods.
      I have lost pace with the wind.




        _Charioteer_

     _In that manner_ (_archaic_) _he finished the statue of his
     brother. It stands mid-way in the hall of laurels ... between the
     Siphnians’ offering and the famous tripod of Naxos._


    Only the priest
    of the inmost house
    has such height,
    only the faun
    in the glade
    such light, strong ankles,
    only the shade of the bay-tree
    such rare dark
    as the darkness
    caught under the fillet
    that covers your brow,
    only the blade
    of the ash-tree
    such length, such beauty
    as thou,
    O my brother;
    and only the gods
    have such love
    as I bring you;
    but now,
    taut with love,
    more than any bright lover,
    I vowed
    to the innermost
    god of the temple,
    this vow.

    God of beauty, I cried,
    as the four stood alert,
    awaiting the shout
    at the goal
    to be off;
    god of beauty,
    I cried to that god,
    if he merit the laurel,
    I dedicate all of my soul
    to you; to you
    all my strength and my power;
    if he merit the bay,
    I will fashion a statue
    of him, of my brother,
    out of thought,
    and the strength of my wrist
    and the fire of my brain;
    I will strive night and day
    till I mould from the clay,
    till I strike from the bronze,
    till I conjure the rock,
    the chisle, the tool,
    to embody this image;
    an image to startle,
    to capture men’s hearts,
    to make all other bronze,
    all art to come after,
    a mock,
    all beauty to follow,
    a shell that is empty;
    I’ll stake all my soul
    on that beauty,
    till God shall awake
    again in men’s hearts,
    who have said he is dead,
    our King and our Lover.

    Then the start,
    ah the sight,
    ah but dim, veiled with tears,
    (so Achilles must weep
    who finds his friend dead,)
    will he win?
    then the ring of the steel
    as two met at the goal,
    entangled and foul,
    misplaced at the start,
    who, who blunders? not you?
    what omens are set?
    alas, gods of the track,
    what ill wreaks its hate,
    speak it clear,
    let me know
    what evil, what fate?
    for the ring of sharp steel
    told two were in peril,
    two, two, one is you,
    already involved
    with the fears of defeat;
    two grazed;
    which must go?

    As the wind,
    Althaia’s beauty came;
    as one after a cruel march,
    catches sight,
    toward the cold dusk,
    of the flower
    that’s her name-sake,
    strayed apart
    toward the road-dust,
    from the stream
    in the wood-depth,
    so I in that darkness,
    my mouth bitter
    with sheer loss,
    took courage,
    my heart spoke,
    remembering how she spoke:
    “I will seek hour by hour
    fresh cones, resin
    and pine-flowers,
    flower of pine,
    laurel flower;
    I will pray:
    ‘let him come
    back to us,
    to our home,
    with the trophy of zeal,
    with the love and the proof
    of the favour of god;
    let him merit the bay.’
    (I expect it,)
    I myself on earth pray
    that our father may pray;
    his voice nearer the gods
    must carry beyond
    my mere mortal prayer:
    ‘O my father beyond,
    look down and be proud,
    ask this thing
    that we win,
    ask it straight of the gods.’”

    Was he glad,
    did he know?
    for the strength
    of his prayer and her prayer
    met me now
    in one flame,
    all my head, all my brow
    was one flame,
    taut and beaten
    and faintly aglow,
    as the wine-cup
    encrusted and beaten and fine
    with the pattern of leaves,
    (so my brow,)
    yet metallic and cool,
    as the gold of the frigid metal
    that circles the heat
    of the wine.

    Then the axel-tree cleft,
    not ours, gods be blest;
    now but three of you left,
    three alert and abreast,
    three--one streak of what fire?
    three straight for the goal:
    ah defeat,
    ah despair,
    still fate tricked our mares,
    for they swerved,
    flanks quivering and wet,
    as the wind
    at the mid-stretch
    caught and fluttered a white scarf;
    a veil shivering,
    only the fluttering
    of a white band,
    yet unnerved and champing,
    they turned,
    (only knowing the swards of Achæa)
    and he, O my love,
    that stranger,
    his stallions
    stark frenzied and black,
    had taken the inmost course,
    overtook,
    overcame,
    overleapt,
    and crowded you back.

    O those horses
    we loved and we prized;
    I had gathered Alea mint
    and soft branch
    of the vine-stock in flower,
    I had stroked Elaphia;
    as one prays to a woman
    “be kind,”
    I had prayed Daphnaia;
    I had threatened Orea
    for her trick
    of out-pacing the three,
    even these,
    I had almost despaired
    at her fleet, proud pace,
    O the four,
    O swift mares of Achæa.

    Should I pray them again?
    or the gods of the track?
    or Althaia at home?
    or our father who died for Achæa?
    or our fathers beyond
    who had vanquished the east?
    should I threaten or pray?

    The sun struck the ridge of white marble
    before me:
    white sun on white marble
    was black:
    the day was of ash,
    blind, unrepentant, despoiled,
    my soul cursed the race and the track,
    you had lost.

    _You_, lost at the last?

    Ah fools,
    so you threatened to win?
    ah fools,
    so you knew my brother?

    Greeks all,
    all crafty and feckless,
    even so, had you guessed
    what ran in his veins and mine,
    what blood of Achæa,
    had you dared,
    dared enter the contest,
    dared aspire with the rest?

    You had gained,
    you outleapt them;
    a sudden, swift lift of the reins,
    a sudden, swift, taut grip of the reins,
    as suddenly loosed,
    you had gained.

    When death comes
    I will see
    no vision of after,
    (as some count
    there may be an hereafter,)
    no thought of old lover,
    no girl, no woman,
    neither mother,
    nor yet my father
    who died for Achæa,
    neither God with the harp
    and the sun on His brow,
    but thou,
    O my brother.

    When death comes,
    instead of a vision,
    (I will catch it in bronze)
    you will stand
    as you stood at the end,
    (as the herald announced it,
    proclaiming aloud,
    “Achæa has won,”)
    in-reining them now,
    so quiet,
    not turning to answer
    the shout of the crowd.




        _The Look-out_


    Better the wind, the sea, the salt
    in your eyes,
    than this, this, this.

    You grumble and sweat;
    my ears are acute
    to catch your complaint,
    almost the sea’s roar is less
    than your constant threat
    of “back and back to the shore,
    and let us rest.”

    You grumble and curse your luck
    and I hear:
    “O Lynceus,
    aloft by the prow,
    his head on his arms,
    his eyes half closed,
    almost asleep,
    to watch for a rock,
    (and hardly ever we need
    his ‘to left’ or ‘to right’)
    let Lynceus have my part,
    let me rest like Lynceus.”

    “Rest like Lynceus!”
    I’d change my fate for yours,
    the very least,
    I’d take an oar with the rest.

    “Like Lynceus,”
    as if my lot were the best.

    O God, if I could speak,
    if I could taunt the lot
    of the wretched crew,
    with my fate, my work.

    But I may not,
    I may not tell
    of the forms that pass and pass,
    of that constant old, old face
    that leaps from each wave
    to wait underneath the boat
    in the hope that at last she’s lost.

    Could I speak,
    I would tell of great mountains
    that flow, great weeds
    that float and float
    to tangle our oars
    if I fail “to left, to right;”
    where the dolphin leaps
    you saw a sign from the god,
    I saw why he leapt from the deep.

    “To right, to left;”
    it is easy enough
    to lean on the prow, half asleep,
    and you think,
    “no work for Lynceus.”
    No work?

    If only you’d let me take an oar,
    if only my back could break with the hurt,
    if the sun could blister my feet,
    pain, pain that I might forget
    the face that just this moment
    passed through the prow
    when you said, “asleep.”

    Many and many a sight
    if I could speak,
    many and many tales I’d tell,
    many and many a struggle,
    many a death,
    many and many my hurts
    and my pain so great,
    I’d gladly die
    if I did not love the quest.

    Grumble and swear and curse,
    brother, god and the boat,
    and the great waves,
    but could you guess
    what strange terror lurks in the sea-depth,
    you’d thank the gods for the ship,
    the timber and giant oars, god-like,
    and the god-like quest.

    If you could see as I,
    what lurks in the sea-depth,
    you’d pray to the ropes
    and the solid timbers
    like god, like god;

    you’d pray to the oars and your work,
    you’d pray and thank
    the boat for her very self;
    timber and oar and plank
    and sail and the sail-ropes,
    these are beautiful things and great.

    But Lynceus at the prow
    has nothing to do but wait
    till we reach a shoal or some rocks
    and then he has only to lift his arms,
    right, left;
    O brother,
    I’d change my place
    for the worst seat
    in the cramped bench,
    for an oar, for an hour’s toil,
    for sweat and the solid floor.

    I’d change my place
    as I sit with eyes half closed,
    if only I could see just the ring
    cut by the boat,
    if only I could see just the water,
    the crest and the broken crest,
    the bit of weed that rises on the crest,
    the dolphin only when he leaps.

    But Lynceus,
    though they cannot guess
    the hurt, though they do not thank
    the oars for the dead peace
    of heart and brain worn out,
    you must wait,
    alert, alert, alert.




        _Odyssey_

    _Muse,
    tell me of this man of wit,
    who roamed long years
    after he had sacked
    Troy’s sacred streets._


    All the rest
    who had escaped death,
    returned,
    fleeing battle and the sea;
    only Odysseus,
    captive of a goddess,
    desperate and home-sick,
    thought but of his wife and palace;
    but Calypso,
    that nymph and spirit,
    yearning in the furrowed rock-shelf,
    burned
    and sought to be his mistress;
    but years passed,
    the time was ripe,
    the gods decreed,
    (although traitors plot
    to betray him in his own court,)
    he was to return
    to Ithaca;
    and all the gods pitied him;
    but Poseidon
    steadfast to the last
    hated
    god-like Odysseus.

    The sea-god visited
    a distant folk,
    Ethiopians,
    who at the edge of earth
    are divided into two parts,
    (half watch the sun rise,
    half, the sun set,)
    there the hecatomb
    of slain sheep and oxen
    await his revels:
    and while he rejoiced,
    seated at the feast,
    the rest of the gods
    gathered in the palace of Olympian Zeus;
    and the father of men and of gods spoke thus:
    (for he remembered bright Egisthus,
    slain of Agamemnon’s child,
    great Orestes:)

    O you spirits,
    how men hate the gods,
    for they say evil comes of us,
    when they themselves,
    by their own wickedness,
    court peril
    beyond their fate;
    so Egisthus, defiant,
    sought Agamemnon’s wife
    and slew Agamemnon
    returning to his own palace,
    though we ourselves
    sent bright Hermes,
    slayer of Argos,
    to warn him
    lest Orestes,
    attaining to man’s estate,
    demand his inheritance
    and take vengeance:
    we forbade him to strike the king,
    we warned him to respect his wife:
    but could Hermes
    of gracious aspect,
    subtle with kindly speech,
    thus avert the foul work?

    Then the grey-eyed Athene,
    the goddess, spoke:
    O my father, Kronos begot,
    first among the great,
    his death at least was just,
    so may all perish who err thus;
    but my heart is rent
    for the prudent Odysseus,
    who, exiled from his friends,
    is kept too long distressed
    in an island, sea swept,
    in the sea midst,
    a forest island,
    haunt of a spirit,
    child of Atlas,
    crafty of thought,
    who knows the sea depth,
    who supports the high pillars
    which cut sky from earth;
    it is his child
    who keeps Odysseus
    lamenting with broken heart,
    ceaseless to tempt him
    with soft and tender speech,
    that he forget Ithaca;
    but Odysseus,
    yearning to see but the smoke
    drift above his own house,
    prefers death;
    your heart, is it not touched,
    O Olympian?
    did not Odysseus please you
    when he made sacrifice
    before the Grecian ships
    in great Troy?
    why are you angry, Zeus?

    Then Zeus,
    keeper of the clouds,
    answering her, spoke:
    O my child,
    what quaint words
    have sped your lips,
    for how could I forget
    the god-like Odysseus,
    a spirit surpassing men,
    first to make sacrifice
    to the deathless
    in the sky-space?
    but Poseidon
    girder of earth,
    though yet he spares his life,
    nurtures unending hate;
    he goads him from place to place
    because of the Cyclops
    blinded of Odysseus,
    Polyphemus, half-god,
    greatest of the Cyclops,
    whom the nymph Thoosa,
    child of Phorcys,
    king of the waste sea, begot
    when she lay with Poseidon
    among the shallow rocks:
    but come,
    let us plot
    to reinstate Odysseus,
    and Poseidon must abandon his wrath;
    for what can one god accomplish,
    striving alone
    to defy all the deathless?

    Then the grey-eyed Athene,
    the goddess, spoke:
    O my father, Kronos begot,
    first among the great,
    if then it seems just
    to the highest,
    that Odysseus return
    to his own house,
    let us swiftly send
    Hermes, slayer of Argos,
    your attendant,
    that he state
    to the fair-haired nymph,
    our irrevocable wish,
    that Odysseus,
    valiant of heart,
    be sent back:
    and I will depart to Ithaca,
    to incite his son,
    to put courage in his heart,
    that he call to the market place
    the long-haired Greeks
    and shut his gates
    to the pretendants
    who ceaselessly devour his flocks,
    sheep and horned oxen
    of gentle pace:
    that he strive
    for his father’s sake
    and gain favour
    in men’s thoughts,
    I will send him to Sparta,
    to Pylos’ sandy waste.

    _She spoke
    and about her feet
    clasped bright sandals,
    gold-wrought, imperishable,
    which lift her above sea,
    across the land stretch,
    wind-like,
    like the wind breath._




        _From the Masque_




        _Hyacinth_


        1

    Your anger charms me,
    and yet all the time
    I think of chaste, slight hands,
    veined snow;
    snow craters filled
    with first wild-flowerlets;
    glow of ice-gentian,
    whitest violet;
    snow craters
    and the ice ridge
    spilling light;
    dawn and the lover
    chaste dawn leaves bereft--
    I think of these
    and snow-cooled Phrygian wine.

    Your anger charms me subtly
    and I know
    that you would take
    the still hands
    where I’d rest;
    you would despoil
    for very joy of theft;
    list, lady,
    I would give you one last hint:
    quench your red mouth
    in some cold forest lake,
    cover your russet locks
    with arum leaf,
    quench out the colour,
    still the fevered glance,
    cover your want,
    your fire insatiate,
    I can not match your fervour,
    nay, nor still my ache
    with any
    but white hands inviolate.


        2

    Take the red spoil
    of grape and pomegranate,
    the red camellia,
    the most, most red rose;
    take all the garden spills,
    inveterate,
    prodigal spender
    just as summer goes,
    the red scales of the deep in-folded spice,
    the Indian, Persian and the Syrian pink,
    their scent undaunted
    even in that faint,
    unmistakable fragrance
    of the late tuberose,
    (heavy its petals,
    eye-lids of dark eyes
    that open languorous
    and more languorous close--the east,
    further than scent
    of our wind-smitten isle,)
    take these:

    O lady, take them,
    prodigal
    I cull and offer this and this and these
    last definite whorls
    of clustered peonies,
    the last, the first
    that stained our stainless ledge
    of blue and white
    and the white foam of sea,
    rocks,
    and that strait ledge
    whiter than the rock
    the Parians break
    from their enchanted hill;
    take, lady,
    but leave me with my weed and shell
    and those slight, hovering gull-wings that recall
    silver of far Hymettus’ asphodel.


        3

    Take all
    for you have taken everything,
    but do not let me see you taking this;
    Adonis lying spent with Venus’ care,
    Adonis dying were a lesser ache
    than this,
    to have even your slightest breath
    breathe in the crystal air
    where he takes breath.

    Take all
    for you have taken everything,
    save the broad ledge of sea
    which no man takes,
    take all
    for you have taken mirth and ease
    and all the small delights
    of simple poets,
    the lilt of rhyme,
    the sway and lift and fall,
    the first spring gold
    your fire has scorched to ash,
    the fresh winds
    that go halt
    where you have passed,
    the Tyrian iris
    I so greatly loved,
    its dark head speared
    through its wet spray of leaves.

    Take all,
    but ah, lady, a fool, a poet
    may even know when you have taken all:
    up on the mountain slope
    one last flower cleaves
    to the wet marge of ice,
    the blue of snow,
    keep all your riot
    in the swales below,
    of grape and autumn,
    take all, taking these,
    for you and autumn yet
    can not prevail
    against that flame, that flower,
    (ice, spark or jewel,)
    the cyclamen,
    parting its white cyclamen leaves.


        4

    O, I am ill with dust
    as you with stain,
    O, I am worthless,
    weary, world-bedragged,
    nevertheless to mountains
    still the rain
    falls on the tangle
    of dead under-brush,
    freshens the loam,
    the earth and broken leaves
    for that hoar-frost
    of later star or flower,
    the fragile host
    of Greek anemones.

    Say I am little meet
    to call the youth,
    say I have little magic
    to enchant,
    but is that reason
    why your flaring will
    should sweep and scorch,
    should lap and seethe and fill
    with last red flame
    the tender ditch and runnel
    which the spring freshet
    soon must fill again?

    White violets
    have no place
    on your hot brow;
    how can I bring you
    what the spring must bring?
    what can I offer?
    lush and heady mallow?
    the fire-grass
    or the serpent-spotted
    fire-flower?
    O take them,
    for I stand a ruinous cloud
    between you
    and the chaste uplifted hill.

    O take them swiftly
    and more swiftly go,
    for spring is distant yet,
    for spring is far;
    you have your tense, short space
    of blazing sun,
    your melons, vines,
    your terraces of fruit;
    now all you have,
    all, all I gladly give
    who long but for the ridge,
    the crest and hollow,
    the lift and fall,
    the reach and distant ledge
    of the sun-smitten,
    wind-indented snow.




        _The bird-choros of Ion_


    Birds from Parnassus,
    swift
    you dart
    from the loftiest peaks;
    you hover, dip,
    you sway and perch
    undaunted on the gold-set cornice;
    you eagle,
    god’s majestic legate,
    who tear, who strike
    song-birds in mid-flight,
    my arrow whistles toward you,
    swift
    be off;

    ah drift,
    ah drift
    so soft, so light,
    your scarlet foot so deftly placed
    to waft you neatly
    to the pavement,
    swan, swan
    and do you really think
    your song
    that tunes the harp of Helios,
    will save you
    from the arrow-flight?
    turn back,
    back
    to the lake of Delos;

    lest all the song notes
    pause and break
    across a blood-stained throat
    gone songless,
    turn back,
    back
    ere it be too late,
    to wave-swept Delos.

    Alas, and still another,
    what?
    you’d place your mean nest
    in the cornice?
    sing, sing
    my arrow-string,
    tell to the thief
    that plaits its house
    for fledglings
    in the god’s own house,
    that still the Alpheus
    whispers sweet
    to lure
    the birdlets to the place,
    that still the Isthmus
    shines with forests;
    on the white statues
    must be found
    no straw nor litter
    of bird-down,
    Phœbos must have his portal fair;

    and yet, O birds,
    though this my labour
    is set,
    though this my task is clear,
    though I must slay you,
    I, god’s servant,
    I who take here
    my bread and life
    and sweep the temple,
    still I swear
    that I would save you,
    birds or spirits,
    winged songs
    that tell to men god’s will;

    still, still
    the Alpheus whispers clear
    to lure the bird-folk
    to its waters,
    ah still
    the Isthmus
    blossoms fair;
    lest all the song notes
    pause and break
    across a blood-stained throat
    gone songless,
    turn back,
    back
    ere it be too late,
    to wave-swept Delos.