Now was thick silence broken; now no way For her to shift her task nor he his fate. Keenly she heeds. "'Tis Paris at the gate! What now? Whither away? Where wilt thou hide?" He lookt her in the face. "Here I abide What he may do. Was it not truth I spake That all Hellas lay in thy hand? Now take What counsel or what comfort may avail." Paris stood in the door and cried her Hail. "Hail to thee, Rose of the World!" then saw the man, And knit his brows upon him, close to scan His features; but Odysseus had his hood Shadowing his face. Some time the Trojan stood Judging, then said, "Thou seek'st? What seekest thou?" "A debt is owed me. I seek payment now." So he was told; but he drew nearer yet. "I would know more of thee and of thy debt," He said. And then Odysseus, "This thy strife Hath ruined all my fields which are my life, Brought murrain on my beasts, cold ash to my hearth, Emptiness to my croft. Hunger and dearth, Are these enough? Who pays me?" Then Paris, "I pay, but first will know what man it is I am to pay, and in what kind." So said, Snatching the hood, he whipt it from his head And lookt and knew the Ithacan. "Now by Zeus, Treachery here!" He swung his sword-arm loose Forth of his cloak and set hand to his sword; But Helen softly called him: "Hath my lord No word of greeting for his bondwoman?" Straightway he went to her, and left the man, And took her in his arms, and held her close. And light of foot, Odysseus quit the house.

ELEVENTH STAVE

THE BEGUILING OF PARIS

Now Paris tipt her chin and turned her face Upwards to his that fondly he might trace The beauty of her budded lips, and stoop And kiss them softly; and fingered in the loop That held her girdle, and closer pressed, on fire, Towards her; for her words had stung desire Anew; and wooing in his fond boy's way, Whispered and lookt his passion; then to pray Began: "Ah, love, long strange to me, behold Thy winter past, and come the days of gold And pleasance of the spring! For in thine eyes I see his light and hail him as he flies! Nay, cloud him not, nor veil him"—for she made To turn her face, saying, "Ah, let them fade: The soul thou prisonest here is grayer far." But he would give no quarter now. "O star, O beacon-star, shine on me in the night That I may wash me in thy bath of light, Taking my fill of thee; so cleansed all And healed, I rise renewed to front what call May be!" which said, with conquest in his bones And in his eyes assurance, in high tones He called her maids, bade take her and prepare The couch, and her to be new-wedded there; For long had they been strangers to their bliss. So by the altar standeth she submiss And watchful, praying silent and intense To a strange-figured Goddess, to his sense Who knew but Aphrodite. "Love, what now? Who is thy God? What secret rite hast thou?" For grave and stern above that altar stood Here the Queen of Heaven. In dry mood She answered him, "Chaste wives to her do pray Before they couch, Blest be the strife! You say We are to be new-wedded. Pour with me Libation that we love not fruitlessly." So said, she took the well-filled cup and poured, And prayed, saying, "O Mother, not abhorred Be this my service of thee. Count it not Offence, nor let my prayers be forgot When reckoning comes of things done and not done By me thy child, or to me, hapless one, Unloving paramour and unloved wife!" "Here, to thee for issue of the strife!" Cried Paris then, and poured. So Helen went And let her maids adorn her to his bent.

Then took he joy of her, and little guessed Or cared what she might give or get. Possest Her body by his body, but her mind Searcht terribly the issue. As one blind Explores the dark about him in broad day And fingers in the air, so as she lay Lax in his arms, her fainting eyes, aglaze For terror coming, sought escape all ways. Alas for her! What way for woman fair, Whose joy no fairer makes her than despair? Her burning lips that kisses could not cool, Her beating heart that not love made so full, The surging of her breast, her clinging hands: Here are such signs as lover understands, But fated Paris nowise. Her soul, distraught To save him, proved the net where he was caught. For more she anguisht lest love be his bane The fiercelier spurred she him, to make him fain Of that which had been ruinous to all. But all the household gathered on the wall While these two in discordant bed were plight, And watcht the Achaian fires. No beacon-light Showed by the shore, but countless, flickering, streamed Innumerable lights, wove, dipt and gleamed Like fireflies on a night of summer heat, Withal one way they moved, though many beat Across and back, and mingled with the rest. Anon a great glare kindled from the crest Of Ida, and was answered by a blaze Behind the ships, which threw up in red haze Huge forms of prow and beak. Then from the Mound Of Ilos fire shot up, from sacred ground, And out the mazy glory of moving lights One sped and flared, as of the meteorites In autumn some fly further, brighter courses. A chariot! They heard the thunder of the horses; And as they flew the torch left a bright wake. And thus to one another woman spake, "Lo, more lights race! They follow him, they near, Catch and draw level. Hark! Now you can hear The tramp of men!" Says one, "That baleful sheen Is light upon their spears. The Greeks, I ween, Are coming up to rescue or requite." But then her mate: "They mass, they fill the night With panic terror." True, that all night things Fled as they came. They heard the flickering wings Of countless birds in haste, and as they flew So fled the dark away. Light waxed and grew Until the dead of night was vivified And radiant opened out the countryside With pulsing flames of fire, which gleamed and glanced, Flickered, wavered, yet never stayed advance. As the sun rising high o'er Ida cold Beats a sea-path in flakes of molten gold, So stretcht from shore to Troy that litten stream That moved and shuddered, restless as a dream, Yet ever nearing, till on spear and shield They saw light like the moon on a drowned field, And in the glare of torches saw and read Gray faces, like the legions of the dead, Silent about the walls, and waiting there. But in the fragrant chamber Helen the fair Lay close in arms, and Paris slept, his head Upon her bosom, deep as any dead.

Sudden there smote the blast of a great horn, Single, long-held and shuddering, and far-borne; And then a deathless silence. Paris stirred On that soft pillow, and listened while they heard Many men running frantically, with feet That slapt the stones, and voices in the street Of question and call—"Oh, who are ye that run? What of the night?" "O peace!" And some lost one Wailed like a woman, and her a man did curse, And there were scuffling, prayers, and then worse— A silence. But the running ended not While Paris lay alistening with a knot Of Helen's loose hair twisting round his finger. "O love," he murmured low, "I may not linger. The street's awake. Alas, thou art too kind To be a warrior's bride." Sighing, she twined Her arm about his neck and toucht his face, And pressed it gently back to its warm place Of pillowing. And Paris kissed her breast And slept; but her heart's riot gave no rest As quaking there she lay, awaiting doom. Then afar off rose clamour, and the room Was fanned with sudden light and sudden dark, As on a summer night in a great park Blazed forth you see each tuft of grass or mound, Anon the drowning blackness, while the sound Of Zeus's thunder hardens every close: So here the chamber glared, then dipt, and rose That far confused tumult, and now and then The scurrying feet of passion-driven men. Thrilling she waited with sick certainty Of doom inexorable, while the struck city Fought its death-grapple, and the windy height Of Pergamos became a shambles. White The holy shrines stared on a field of blood, And with blank eyes the emptied temples stood While murder raved before them, and below And all about the city ran the woe Of women for their children. Then the flame Burst in the citadel, and overcame The darkness, and the time seemed of broad day. And Helen stared unwinking where she lay Pillowing Paris. Now glad and long and shrill The second trumpet sounds. They have the hill— High Troy is down, is down! Starting, he wakes And turns him in her arms. His face she takes In her two hands and turns it up to hers. Nothing she says, nothing she does, nor stirs From her still scrutiny, nor so much as blinks Her eyes, deep-searching, of whose blue he drinks, And fond believes her all his own, while she Marvels that aught of his she e'er could be In times bygone. But now he is on fire Again, and urges on her his desire, And loses all the sense of present needs For him in burning Troy, where Priam bleeds Head-smitten, trodden on his palace-floor, And white Kassandra yieldeth up her flower To Aias' lust, and of the Dardan race Survive he only, renegade disgrace, He only and Aineias the wise prince. But now is crying fear abroad and wins The very household of the shameful lover; Now are the streets alive, for worse in cover Like a trapt rat to die than fight the odds Under the sky. Now women shriek to the Gods, And men run witlessly, and in and out The Greeks press, burning, slaying, and the rout Screameth to Heaven. As at sea the mews Pack, their wings battling, when some fresh wrack strews The tideway, and in greater haste to stop Others from prey, will let their morsel drop, And all the while make harsh lament—so here The avid spoilers bickered in their fear To be man[oe]uvred out of robbery, And tore the spoil, and mangled shamefully Bodies of men to strip them, and in haste To forestall ravishers left the victims chaste. Ares, the yelling God, and Ate white Swept like a snow-storm over Troy that night; And towers rockt, and in the naked glare Of fire the smoke climbed to the upper air; And clamour was as of the dead broke loose. But Menelaus his stern way pursues, And to the wicked house with chosen band Cometh, his good sword naked in his hand; And now, while Paris loves and holds her fast In arms, the third horn sounds a shattering blast, Long-held, triumphant; and about the door Gathers the household, to cry, to pray, to implore, And at the last break in and scream the truth— "The Greeks! The Greeks! Save yourselves!" Then in sooth Starts Paris out of bed, and as he goes Sees in the eyes of Helen all she knows And all believes; and with his utter loss Of her rises the man in him that was Ere luxury had entered blood and bone Of him. No word he said, but let one groan, And turned his dying eyes to hers, and read Therein his fate, that to her he was dead, Long dead and cold in grave. Whereat he past Out of the door, and met his end at last As man, not minion. But the woman fair Lay on her face, half buried in her hair, Naked and prone beneath her saving sin, Not yet enheartened new life to begin.

ENVOY

But thou didst rise, Maid Helen, as from sleep, A final tryst to keep With thy true lover, in whose hands thy life Lay, as in arms; his wife In heart as well as deed; his wife, his friend, His soul's fount and its end! For such it is, the marriage of true minds, Each in each sanction finds; So if her beauty lift her out of thought Whither man's to be brought To worship her perfection on his knees, So in his strength she sees Self glorified, and two make one clear orb Whereinto all rays absorb Which stream from God and unto God return.— So, as he fared, I yearn To be, and serve my years of pain and loss 'Neath my walled Ilios, With my eyes ever fixt to where, a star, Thou and thy sisters are, Helen and Beatrice, with thee embraced, Hands in thy hands, and arms about thy waist.

1911-12.



HYPSIPYLE

Queen of the shadows, Maid and Wife, Twifold in essence, as in life, The lamp of Death, the star of Birth, Half cradled and half mourned by Earth, By Hell half won, half lost! aid me To sing thy fond Hypsipyle, Thy bosom's mate who, unafraid, Renounced for thee what part she had In sun and wind upon the hill, In dawn about the mere, in still Woodlands, in kiss of lapping wave, In laughter, in love—all this she gave!— And shared thy dream-life, visited The sunless country of the dead, There to abide with thee, their Queen, In that gray region, shadow-seen By them that cast no shadows, yet Themselves are shadows. Nor forget, Kore, her love made manifest To thee, familiar of her breast And partner of her whispering mouth.

Thee too, Our Lady of the South, Uranian Kypris, I invoke, Regent of starry space, with stroke Of splendid wing, in whose white wake Stream those who, filled with thee, forsake Their clinging shroudy clots, and rise, Lover and loved, to thy pure skies, To thy blue realm! O lady, touch My lips with rue, for she loved much.

What poet in what cloistered nook, Indenting in what roll of a book His rhymes, can voice the tides of love? Nay, thrilling lark, nay, moaning dove, The nightingale's full-charged throat That cheereth now, and now doth gloat, And now recordeth bitter-sweet Longing, too wise to image it: These be your minstrels, lovers! Choose From their winged choir your urgent Muse; Let her your speechless joys relate Which men with words sophisticate, Striving by reasons make appear To head what heart proclaims so clear To heart; as if by wit to wis What mouth to mouth tells in a kiss, Or in their syllogisms dry Freeze a swift glance's cogency. Nay, but the heart's so music-fraught, Music is all in love, words naught. One heart's a rote, with music stored Though mute; but two hearts make a chord Of piercing music. One alone Is nothing: two make the full tone.

I

On Enna's uplands, on a lea Between the mountains and the sea, Shadowed anon by wandering cloud, Or flickering wings of birds a-crowd, And now all golden in the sun, See Kore, see her maidens run Hither and thither through those hours Of dawn among the wide-eyed flowers, While gentian, crocus, asphodel (With rosy star in each white bell), Anemone, blood-red with rings Of paler fire, that plant that swings A crimson cluster in the wind They pluck, or sit anon to bind Of these earth-stars a coronet For their smooth-tressed Queen, who yet Strays with her darling interlaced, Hypsipyle the grave, the chaste— Her whose gray shadow-life with his Who singeth now for ever is. She, little slim thing, Kore's mate, Child-faced, gray-eyed, of sober gait, Of burning mind and passion pent To image-making, ever went Where wonned her Mistress; for those two By their hearts' grace together grew, The one to need, the one to give (As women must if they would live, Who substance win by waste of self And only spend to hoard their pelf: "O heart, take all of mine!" "O heart, That which thou tak'st of thee is part— No robbery therefore: mine is thine, Take then!"): so she and Proserpine Intercommunion'd each bright day, And when night fell together lay Cradled in arms, or cheek to cheek Whispered the darkness out. Thou meek And gentle vision! let me tell Thy beauties o'er I love so well: Thy sweet low bosom's rise and fall, Pulsing thy heart's clear madrigal; Or how the blue beam from thine eyes Imageth all love's urgencies; Thy lips' frail fragrance, as of flowers Remembered in penurious hours Of winter-exile; of thy brow, Not written as thy breast of snow With love's faint charact'ry, for his wing Leaves not the heart long! Last I sing Thy thin quick fingers, in whose pleaching Lieth all healing, all good teaching— Wherewith, touching my discontent, I know how thou art eloquent! Remember'd joy, Hypsipyle! Now may that serve to comfort me, While I, O Maiden dedicate, Seek voice for singing thy gray Fate!

Now, as they went, one heart in two, Brusht to the knees by flowers, by dew Anointed, by the wind caressed, By the light kissed on eyes and breast, 'Twas Kore talked; Hypsipyle Listened, with eyes far-set, for she Of speech was frugal, voicing low And rare her heart's deep underflow— Content to lie, like fallow sweet For rain or sun to cherish it, Or scattered seed substance to find In her deep-funded, quiet mind. And thus the Goddess: "Blest art thou, Hypsipyle, who canst not know Until the hour strikes what must come To pass! But I foresee the doom And stay to meet it. Even here The place, and now the hour!" Then fear Took her who spake so fearless, cold Threaded her thronging veins—behold! A hand on either shoulder stirs That slim, sweet body close to hers, And need fires need till, lip with lip, They seal and sign their fellowship, While Kore, godhead all forgot, Clings whispering, "Child, leave me not Whenas to darkness and the dead I go!" And clear the answer sped From warm mouth murmuring kiss and cheer, "Never I leave thee, O my dear!" Thereafter stand they beatingly, Not speaking; and the hour draws nigh.

And all the land shows passing fair, Fair the broad sea, the living air, The misty mountain-sides, the lake Flecked blue and purple! To forsake These, and those bright flower-gatherers Scattered about this land of theirs, That stoop or run, that kneel to pick, That cry each other to come quick And see new treasure, unseen yet! Remembered joy—ah, how forget!

But mark how all must come to pass As was foreknowledged. In the grass Whereas the Goddess and her mate Stood, one and other, prompt for fate— Listless the first and heavy-eyed, Astrain the second—she espied That strange white flower, unseen before, With chalice pale, which thin stalk bore And swung, as hanging by a hair, So fine it seemed afloat in air, Unlinkt and wafted for the feast Of some blest mystic, without priest Or acolyte to tender it: Whereto the maid did stoop and fit Her hand about its silken cup To close it, that her mouth might sup The honey-drop within. The bloom Saw Kore then, and knew her doom Foretold in it; and stood in trance Fixed and still. No nigromance Used she, but read the fate it bore In seedless womb and petals frore. Chill blew the wind, waiting stood She, Waiting her mate, Hypsipyle.

Then in clear sky the thunder tolled Sudden, and all the mountains rolled The dreadful summons round, and still Lay all the lands, only the rill Made tinkling music. Once more drave Peal upon peal—and lo! a grave Yawned in the Earth, and gushing smoke Belched out, as driven, and hung, and broke With sullen puff; like tongues the flame Leapt following. Thence Aidoneus came, Swart-bearded king, with iron crown'd, In iron mailed, his chariot bound About with iron, holding back Amain two steeds of glistering black And eyeballs white-rimmed fearfully, And nostrils red, and crests flying free; Who held them pawing at the verge, Tossing their spume up, as the surge Flung high against some seaward bluff. Nothing he spake, or smooth or gruff, But drave his errand, gazing down Upon the Maid, whose blown back gown Revealed her maiden. Still and proud Stood she among her nymphs, unbowed Her comely head, undimmed her eye, Inseparate her lips and dry, Facing his challenge of her state, Neither denying, nor desperate, Pleading no mercy, seeing none, Her wild heart masked in face of stone. But they, her bevy, clustered thick As huddled sheep, set their eyes quick, And held each other, hand or waist, Paling or flushing as fear raced Thronging their veins—they knew not, they, The gathered fates that broke this day,

And all the land seemed passing fair To one who knew, and waited there.

"Goddess and Maid," then said the King, "Long have I sought this day should bring An end of torment. Know me thou God postulant, with whom below A world awaits her queen, while here I seek and find one without peer; Nor deem her heedless nor unschooled In what in Heaven is writ and ruled. Decreed of old my bride-right was, Decreed thy Mother's pain and loss, Decreed thy loathing, and decreed That which thou shunnest to be thy need; For thou shalt love me, Lady, yet, Though little liking now, and fret Of jealous care shall grave thy heart And draw thee back when time's to part— If fond Demeter have her will Against thine own."

The Maid stood still And guarded watched, and her proud eyes' Scrutiny bade his own advise Whether indeed their solemn stare Saw Destiny and read it there Beyond her suitor, or within Her own heart heard the message ring. Awhile she gazed: her stern aspect, Young and yet fraught with Godhead, checkt Both Him who claimed, and her who'd cling, And them who wondered. "O great King," She said, and mournful was her crying As when night-winds set pine-trees sighing, "King of the folk beyond the tide Of sleep, behold thy chosen bride Not shunning thee, nor seeking. Take That which Gods neither mar nor make, But only They, the Three, who spin The threads which hem and mesh us in, Both Gods and men, till she who peers The longest cuts them with her shears. Take, take, Aidoneus, and take her, My fosterling." Then He, "O star Of Earth, O Beacon of my days, Light of my nights, whose beamy rays Shall pierce the foggy cerement Wherein my dead grope and lament Beyond all loss the loss of light, Come! and be pleasant in my sight This thy beloved. Perchance she too Shall find a suitor come to woo; For love men leave not with their bones— That is the soul's, and half atones And half makes bitterer their loss, Remembering what their fortune was." Trembling Hypsipyle uplift Her eyes towards the hills, where swift The shadows flew, but no more fleet Than often she with flying feet And flying raiment, she with these Her mates, whom now estranged she sees— As if the shadow-world had spread About her now, and she was dead— Her mates no more! cut off by fear From these two fearless ones. A tear Welled up and hovered, hung a gem Upon her eyelid's dusky hem, As raindrops linkt and strung arow Broider with stars the winter bough. This was her requiem and farewell To them, thus rang she her own knell; Nor more gave she, nor more asked they, But took and went the fairy way. For thus with unshed tears made blind Went she: thus go the fairy kind Whither fate driveth; not as we Who fight with it, and deem us free Therefore, and after pine, or strain Against our prison bars in vain. For to them Fate is Lord of Life And Death, and idle is a strife With such a master. They not know Life past, life coming, but life now; Nor back look they to long, nor forth To hope, but sup the minute's worth With draught so quick and keen that each Moment gives more than we could reach In all our term of three-score years, Whereof full score we give to fears Of losing them, and other score Dreaming how fill the twenty more. Now is the hour, Bride of the Night! The chariot turns, the great steeds fight The rocky entry; flies the dust Behind the wheels at each fierce thrust Of giant shoulder, at each lunge Of giant haunch. Down, down they plunge Into the dark, with rioting mane, And the earth's door shuts-to again. Now fly, ye Oreads, strain your arms, Let eyes and hair voice your alarms— Hair blown back, mouths astretch for fear, Strained eyeballs—cry that Mother dear Her daughter's rape; fly like the gale That down the valleys drives the hail In scurrying sheets, and lays the corn Flat, which when man of woman born Seeth, he bows him to the grass, Whispering in hush, The Oreads pass. (In shock he knows ye, and in mirth, Since he is kindred of that earth Which bore ye in her secret stress, Images of her loveliness, To her dear paramour the Wind.) Follow me now that car behind.

II

O ye that know the fairy throng, And heed their secret under-song; In flower or leaf's still ecstasy Of birth and bud their passion see, In wind or calm, in driving rain Or frozen snow discern them strain To utter and to be; who lie At dawn in dewy brakes to spy The rapture of their flying feet— Follow me now those coursers fleet, Sucked in their wake, down ruining Through channelled night, where only sing The shrill gusts streaming through the hair Of them who sway and bend them there, And peer in vain with shielded eyes To rend the dark. Clinging it lies, Thick as wet gossamer that shrouds October brushwoods, or low clouds That from the mountain tops roll down Into the lowland vales, to drown Men's voices and to choke their breath And make a silence like to death. But this was hot and dry; it came And smote them, like the gush of flame Fanned in a smithy, that outpours And floods with fire the open doors. Downward their course was, swift as flight Of meteor flaring through the night, Steady and dreadful, with no sound Of wheels or hoofs upon the ground, Nor jolt, nor jar; for once past through Earth's portals, steeds and chariot flew On wings invisible and strong And even-oaring, such as throng The nights when birds of passage sweep O'er cities and the folk asleep: Such was their awful flight. Afar Showed Hades glimmering like a star Seen red through fog: and as they sped To that, the frontiers of the dead Revealed their sullen leagues and bare, And sad forms flitting here and there, Or clustered, waiting who might come Their empty ways with news of home. Yet all one course at length must hold, Or late or soon, and all be tolled By Charon in his dark-prowed boat. Thither was swept the chariot And crossed dry-wheeled the coiling flood Of Styx, and o'er the willow wood And slim gray poplars which do hem The further shore, Hell's diadem— So by the tower foursquare and great Where King Aidoneus keeps his state And rules his bodyless thralls they stand.

Dark ridge and hollow showed the land Fold over fold, like waves of soot Fixt in an anguish of pursuit For evermore, so far as eye Could range; and all was hot and dry As furnace is which all about Etna scorcheth in days of drouth, And showeth dun and sinister That fair isle linked to main so fair. Nor tree nor herbage grew, nor sang Water among the rocks: hard rang The heel on metal, or on crust Grew tender, or went soft in dust; Neither for beast nor bird nor snake Was harbourage; nor could such slake Their thirst, nor from the bitter heat Hide, since the sun not furnished it; But airless, shadowless and dense The land lay swooning, dead to sense Beneath that vault of stuprous black, Motionless hanging, without wrack Of cloud to break and pass, nor rent To hint the blue. Like the foul tent A foul night makes, it sagged; for stars Showed hopeless faces, with two scars In each, their eyes' immortal woe, Ever to seek and never know: In all that still immensity These only moved—these and the sea, Which dun and sullen heaved, with surge And swell unseen, save at the verge Where fainted off the black to gray And showed such light as on a day Of sun's eclipse men tremble at.

Here the dead people moved or sat, Casting no shadow, hailing none Boldly; but in fierce undertone They plied each other, or on-sped Their way with signal of the head For answer, or arms desperate Flung up, or shrug disconsolate. And this the quest of every one: "What hope have ye?" And answer, "None." Never passed shadow shadow but That answer got to question put. In that they lived, in that, alas! Lovely and hapless, Thou must pass Thy days, with this for added lot— Aching, to nurse things unforgot.

Remember'd joy, Hypsipyle! The Oread choir, the Oread glee: The nimble air of quickening hills, The sweet dawn light that floods and fills The hollowed valleys; the dawn wind That bids the world wake, and on blind Eyelids of sleeping mortals lays Cool palms that urge them see and praise The Day-God coming with the sun To hearten toil! He warned you run And hide your beauties deep in brake Of fern or briar, or reed of lake, Or in wet crevice of the rock, There to abide until the clock You reckon by, with shadowy hands, Lay benediction on the lands And landsmen, and the eve-jar's croak Summon ye, lightfoot fairy folk, To your activity full tide Over the empty earth and wide. Here be your food, fair nymph, and coy Of mortal ken—remember'd joy!

Remember'd joy! Ah, stormy nights, Ah, the mad revel when wind fights With wind, and slantwise comes the rain And shatters at the window-pane, To wake the hind, who little knows Whose fingers drum those passionate blows, Nor what swift indwellers of air Ye be who hide in forms so fair Your wayward motions, cruel to us, While lovely, and dispiteous! Ah, nights of flying scud and rout When scared the slim young moon rides out In her lagoon of open sky, Or older, marks your revelry As calm and large she oars above Your drifting lives of ruth or love. Boon were those nights of dusted gold And glint of fireflies! Boon the cold And witching frost! All's one, all's one To thee, whose nights and days go on Now in one span of changeless dusk On one earth, crackling like the husk Of the dropt mast in winter wood: Remember'd joy—'tis all thy food, Hypsipyle, to whose fond sprite I vow my praise while I have light.

Dumbly she wandered there, as pale With lack of light, with form as frail As those poor hollow congeners Whose searching eyes encountered hers, Petitioning as mute as she Some grain of hope, where none might be, Daring not yet to voice their moan To her whose case was not their own; For where they go like breath in a shell That wails, my love goes quick in Hell.

Alas, for her, the sweet and slim! Slowly she pines; her eyes grow dim With seeking; her smooth, sudden breasts Hang languidly; those little nests For kisses which her dimples were, In cheeks graved hollow now by care Vanish, and sharply thrusts her chin, And sharp her bones of arm and shin. Reproach she looks, about, above, Denied her light, denied her love, Denied for what she sacrificed, Doomed to be fruitless agonist. (O God, and I must see her fade, Must see and anguish—in my shade!) Nor help nor comfort gat she now From her whose need called forth her vow; For close in arms Queen Kore dwelt In that great tower Aidoneus built To cherish her; deep in his bed, Loved as the Gods love whom they wed; Turned from pale maiden to pale wife, Pale now with love's insatiate strife First to appease, and then renew The wild desire to mingle two Natures, to long, to seek, to shun, To have, to give, to make two one That must be two if they would each Learn all the lore that love can teach. So strove the mistress, while the maid Went alien among the dead, Unspoken, speaking none, but watcht By them who knew themselves outmatcht By her, translated whole, nor guessed What miseries gnawed within that breast, Which could be toucht, which could give meat To babe; which was not eye-deceit As theirs, poor phantoms. So went she Grudged but unscathed beside the sea, Or sat alone by that sad strand Nursing her worn cheek in her hand; And did not mark, as day on day Lengthened the arch of changeless gray, How she was shadowed, how to her Stretcht arms another prisoner; Nor knew herself desirable By any thankless guest of Hell— Withal each phantom seemed no less Whole-natured to her heedlessness.

Midway her round of solitude She used to haunt a dead sea-wood Where among boulders lifeless trees Stuck rigid fingers to the breeze— That stream of faint hot air that flits Aimless at noon. 'Tis there she sits Hour after hour, and as a dove Croons when her breast is ripe for love, So sings this exile, quiet, sad chants Of love, yet knows not what she wants; And singing there in undertone, Is one day answered by the moan Of hidden mourner; but no fear Hath she for sound so true, though near; Nay, but sings out her elegy, Which, like an echo, answers he. Again she sings; he suits her mood, Nor breaks upon her solitude: So she, choragus, calls the tune, And as she leads he follows soon. As bird with bird vies in the brake, She sings no note he will not take— As when she pleads, "Ah, my lost love, The night is dark thou art not of," Quick cometh answering the phrase, "O love, let all our nights be days!" This, rapt, with beating heart, she heeds And follows, "Sweet love, my heart bleeds! Come, stay the wound thyself didst give"; Then he, "I come to bid thee live." And so they carol, and her heart Swells to believe his counterpart, And strophe striketh clear, which he Caps with his brave antistrophe; And as a maiden waxes bold, And opens what should not be told When all her auditory she sees Within her mirror, so to trees And rocks, and sullen sounding main She empties all her passioned pain; And "love, love, love," her burden is, And "I am starving for thee," his. Moved, melted, all on fire she stands, Holding abroad her quivering hands, Raises her sweet eyes faint with tears And dares to seek him whom she hears; And from her parted lips a sigh Stealeth, as knowing he is nigh And her fate on her—then she'd shun That which she seeks; but the thing's done.

Hollow-voiced, dim, spake her a shade, "O thou that comest, nymph or maid— If nymph, then maiden, since for aye Virgin is immortality, Nor love can change what Death cannot— Look on me by love new-begot; Look on me, child new-born, nor start To see my form who knowest my heart; For it is thine. O Mother and Wife, Take then my love—thou gavest it life!"

So spake one close: to whom she lent The wonder of her eyes' content— That lucent gray, as if moonlight Shone through a sapphire in the night— And saw him faintly imaged, rare As wisp of cloud on hillside bare, A filamental form, a wraith Shaped like that man who in the faith Of one puts all his hope: who stood Trembling in her near neighbourhood, A thing of haunted eyes, of slim And youthful seeming; yet not dim, Yet not unmanly in his fashion Of speech, nor impotent of passion— The which his tones gave earnest of And his aspect of hopeless love; Who, drawing nearer, came to stand So close beside her that one hand Lit on her shoulder—yet no touch She felt: "O maiden overmuch," He grieved, "O body far too sweet For such as I, frail counterfeit Of man, who yet was once a man, Cut off before the midmost span Of mortal life was but half run, Or ere to love he had found one Like thee—yet happy in that fate, That waiting, he is fortunate: For better far in Hell to fare With thee than commerce otherwhere, Sharing the snug and fat outlook Of bed and board and ingle-nook With earth-bound woman, earth-born child. Nay, but high love is free and wild And centreth not in mortal things; But to the soul giveth he wings, And with the soul strikes partnership, So may two let corruption slip And breasting level, with far eyes Lifted, seek haven in the skies, Untrammel'd by the earthly mesh. O thou," said he, "of fairy flesh, Immortal prisoner, take of me Love! 'tis my heritage in fee; For I am very part thereof, And share the godhead." So his love Pled he with tones in love well-skilled Which on her bosom beat and thrilled, And pierced. No word nor look she had To voice her heart, or sad or glad. Rapt stood she, wooed by eager word And by her need, whose cry she heard Above his crying; but she guessed She was desired, beset, possessed Already, handfasted to sight, And yielding so, her heart she plight.

Thus was her mating: of the eyes And ears, and her love half surmise, Detected by her burning face Which saw, not felt, his fierce embrace. For on her own she knew no hand When caging it he seemed to stand, And round her waist felt not the warm Sheltered peace of the belting arm She saw him clasp withal. When rained His words upon her, or eyes strained As though her inmost shrine to pierce Where hid her heart of hearts, her ears Conceived, although her body sweet Might never feel a young life beat And leap within it. Ah, what cry That mistress e'er heard poet sigh Could voice thy beauty? Or what chant Of music be thy ministrant? Since thou art Music, poesy Must both thy spouse and increase be!

In the hot dust, where lizards crouch And pant, he made her bridal couch; Thither down drew her to his side And, phantom, taught her to be bride With words so ardent, looks so hot She needs must feel what she had not, Guess herself in beleaguered bed And throb response. Thus she was wed. As she whom Zeus loved in a cloud, So lay she in her lover's shroud, And o'er her members crept the chill We know when mist creeps up a hill Out of the vale at eve. As grows The ivy, rooting as it goes, In such a quick close envelope She lay aswoon, nor guessed the scope Nor tether of his hot intent, Nor what to that inert she lent, Save when at last with half-turned head And glimmering eyes, encompassed She saw herself, a bride possest By ghostly bridegroom, held and prest To unfelt bosom, saw his mouth Against her own, which to his drouth Gave no allay that she could sense, Nor took of her sweet recompense. So moved by pity, stirred by rue, Out of their onslaught young love grew. Love that with delicate tongues of fire Can kindle hearts inflamed desire In her for him who needed it; And so she claimed and by eyes' wit Had what she would: and now made war, Being, as all sweet women are, Prudes till Love calls them, and then fierce In love's high calling. Thus with her ears She fed on love, and to her eyes Lent deeds of passionate emprise— Till at the last, the shadowy strife Ended, she owned herself all wife.

High mating of the mind! O love, Since this must be, on this she throve! Remember'd joy, Hypsipyle, Since this must be, O love, let be!

1911.



OREITHYIA

Oreithyia, by the North Wind carried To stormy Thrace from Athens where you tarried Down by Ilissus all a blowy day Among the asphodels, how rapt away Thither, and in what frozen bed wert married?

"I was a King's tall daughter still unwed, Slim and desirable my locks to shed Free from the fillet. He my maiden belt Undid with busy fingers hid but felt, And made me wife upon no marriage bed.

"As idly there I lay alone he came And blew upon my side, and beat a flame Into my cheeks, and kindled both my eyes. I suffered him who took no bodily guise: The light clouds know whether I was to blame.

"Into my mouth he blew an amorous breath; I panted, but lay still, as quiet as death. The whispering planes and sighing grasses know Whether it was the wind that loved me so: I know not—only this, 'O love,' he saith,

"'O long beset with love, and overloved, O easy saint, untempted and unproved, O walking stilly virgin ways in hiding, Come out, thou art too choice for such abiding! She never valued ease who never roved.

"'Thou mayst not see thy lover, but he now Is here, and claimeth thy low moonlit brow, Thy wonderful eyes, and lips that part and pout, And polished throat that like a flower shoots out From thy dark vesture folded and crossed low.'

"With that he had his way and went his way; For Gods have mastery, and a maiden's nay Grows faint ere it is whispered all. I sped Homeward with startled face and tiptoe tread, And up the stair, and in my chamber lay.

"Crouching I lay and quaked, and heard the wind Wail round the house like a mad thing confined, And had no rest; turn wheresoe'er I would This urgent lover stormed my solitude And beat against the haven of my mind.

"And over all a clamour and dis-ease Filled earth and air, and shuddered in my knees So that I could not stand, but by the wall Leaned pitifully breathing. Still his call Volleyed against the house and tore the trees.

"Then out my turret-window as I might I leaned my body to the blind wet night; That eager lover leapt me, circled round, Wreathed, folded, held me prisoner, wrapt and bound In manacles of terror and delight.

"That night he sealed me to him, and I went Thenceforth his leman, submiss and content; So from the hall and feast, whenas I heard His clear voice call, I flitted like a bird That beats the brake, and garnered what he lent.

"I was no maid that was no wife; my days Went by in dreams whose lights are golden haze And skies are crimson. Laughing not, nor crying, I strayed all witless with my loose hair flying, Bearing that load that women think their praise.

"And felt my breasts grow heavy with that food That women laugh to feel and think it good; But I went shamefast, hanging down my head, With girdle all too strait to serve my stead, And bore an unguessed burden in my blood.

"There was a winter night he came again And shook the window, till cried out my pain Unto him, saying, 'Lord, I dare not live! Lord, I must die of that which thou didst give! Pity me, Lord!' and fell. The winter rain

"Beat at the casement, burst it, and the wind Filled all the room, and swept me white and blind Into the night. I heard the sound of seas Beleaguer earth, I heard the roaring trees Singing together. We left them far behind.

"And so he bore me into stormy Thrace, Me and my load, and kissed back to my face The sweet new blood of youth, and to my limbs The wine of life; and there I bore him twins, Zethes and Calais, in a rock-bound place."

Oreithyia, by the North Wind carried To stormy Thrace, think you of how you tarried And let him woo and wed? "Ah, no, for now He's kissed all Athens from my open brow. I am the Wind's wife, wooed and won and married."

1897.



CLYTIE

Hearken, O passers, what thing Fortuned in Hellas. A maid, Lissom and white as the roe, Lived recess'd in a glade. Clytie, Hamadryad, She was called that I sing— Flower so fair, so frail, that to bring her a woe, Surely a pitiful thing!

A wild bright creature of trees, Brooks, and the sun among leaves, Clytie, grown to be maid: Ah, she had eyes like the sea's Iris of green and blue! White as sea-foam her brows, And her hair reedy and gold: So she grew and waxt supple and fit to be spouse In a king's palace of old.

All in a kirtle of green, With her tangle of red-gold hair, In the live heart of an oak, Clytie, harbouring there, Throned there as a queen, Clytie wondering woke: Ah, child, what set thee too high for thy sweet demesne, And who ponder'd the doleful stroke?

For the child that was maiden grown, The queen of the forest places, Clytie, Hamadryad, Tired of the joy she had, And the kingdom that was her own; And tired of the quick wood-races, And joy of herself in the pool when she wonder'd down, And tired of her budded graces.

And the child lookt up to the Sun And the burning track of his car In the broad serene above her: "O King Sun, be thou my lover, For my beauty is just begun. I am fresh and fair as a star; Come, lie where the lilies are: Behold, I am fair and dainty and white all over, And I waste in the wood unknown!"

Rose-flusht, daring, she strain'd Her young arms up, and she voiced The wild desire of her heart. The woodland heard her, the faun, The satyr, and things that start, Peering, heard her; the dove, crooning, complain'd In the pine-tree by the lawn. Only the runnel rejoiced In his rushy hollow apart To see her beauty flash up White and red as the dawn.

Sorrow, ye passers-by, The quick lift of her word, The crimson blush of her pride! Heard her the heavens' lord In his flaming seat in the sky: "Overbold of her years that will not be denied; She would be the Sun-God's bride!" His brow it was like the flat of a sword, And levin the glance of his side.

And he bent unto her, and his mouth Burnt her like coals of fire; He gazed with passionate eyes, Like flame that kindles and dries, And his breath suckt hers as the white rage of the South Draws life; his desire Was like to a tiger's drouth. What shall the slim maiden avail? Alas, and alas for her youth!

Tremble, O maids, that would set Your love-longing to the Sun! For Clytie mourn, and take heed How she loved her king and did bleed Ere kissing had yet begun. For lo! one shaft from his terrible eyes she met, And it burnt to her soul, and anon She paled, and the fever-fret Did bite to her bones; and wan She fell to rueing the deed.

Mark ye, maidens, and cower! Lo, for an end of breath, Clytie, hardy and frail, Anguisht after her death. For the Sun-flower droops and is pale When her king hideth his power, And ever draggeth the woe of her piteous tale, As a woman that laboureth Yet never reacheth the hour: So Clytie yearns to the Sun, for her wraith Moans in the bow'd sunflower.

Clytie, Hamadryad, Called was she that I sing: Flower so fair and frail that to work her this woe, Surely a pitiful thing!

1894.



LAI OF GOBERTZ[1]

Of courteous Limozin wight, Gobertz, I will indite: From Poicebot had he his right Of gentlehood; Made monk in his own despite In San Leonart the white, Withal to sing and to write Coblas he could.

Learning had he, and rare Music, and gai saber: No monk with him to compare In that monast'ry. Full lusty he was to bear Cowl and chaplet of hair God willeth monks for to wear For sanctity.

There in dortoir as he lay, To this Gobertz, by my fay, Came fair women to play In his sleep; Then he had old to pray, Fresh and silken came they, With eyen saucy and gray That set him weep.

May was the month, and soft The singing nights; up aloft The quarter moon swam and scoffed His unease. Rose this Gobertz, and doffed His habit, and left that croft, Crying Eleison oft At Venus' knees.

Heartly the road and the town Mauleon, over the down, Sought he, and the renown Of Savaric; To that good knight he knelt down, Asking of him in bown Almesse of laurel crown For his music.

Fair him Savaric spake, "If coblas you know to make, Song and music to wake For your part, Horse and lute shall you take Of Jongleur, lightly forsake Cloister for woodland brake With good heart."

Down the high month of May Now rideth Gobertz his way To Aix, to Puy, to Alais, To Albi the old; In Toulouse mindeth to stay With Count Simon the Gay, There to abide what day Love shall hold.

Shrill riseth his song: Cobla, lai, or tenzon, None can render him wrong In that meinie— Love alone, that erelong Showed him in all that throng Of ladies Tibors the young, None but she.

She was high-hearted and fair, Low-breasted, with hair Gilded, and eyes of vair In burning face: On her Gobertz astare, Looking, stood quaking there To see so debonnair Hold her place.

Proud donzela and free, To clip nor to kiss had she Talent, nor for minstrelsy Was she fain; Mistress never would be, Nor master have; but her fee She vowed to sweet Chastity, Her suzerain.

Then this Gobertz anon Returneth to Mauleon, To Savaric maketh moan On his knees. Other pray'r hath he none Save this, "Sir, let me begone Whence I came, since fordone My expertise."

Quod Savaric, "Hast thou sped So ill in amors?" Answered This Gobertz, "By my head, She scorneth me." "Hauberc and arms then, instead Of lute and begarlanded Poll, take you," he said, "For errantry."

Now rides he out, a dubbed knight, The Spanish road, for to fight Paynimry; day and night Urgeth he; In Saragoza the bright, And Pampluna with might Seeketh he what respite For grief there be.

War-dimmed grew his gear, Grim his visage; in fear Listened Mahound his cheer Deep in Hell. Fled his legions to hear Gobertz the knight draw near. Now he closeth the year In Compostell.

Offering there hath he made Saint James, candles him paid, Gold on the shrine hath laid; Now Gobertz Is for Toulouse, where that maid Tibors wonned unafraid Of Love and his accolade That breaketh hearts.

He rode north and by east, Nor rider spared he nor beast, Nor tempered spur till at least Forth of Spain; Not for mass-bell nor priest, For fast-day nor yet for feast Stayed he, till voyage ceased In Aquitaine.

Now remaineth to tell What this Gobertz befell When that he sought hostel In his land. Dined he well, drank he well, Envy then had somedeal With women free in bordel For to spend.

In poor alberc goeth he Where bought pleasure may be, Careless proffereth fee For his bliss. O Gobertz, look to thee. Such a sight shalt thou see Will make the red blood to flee Thy heart, ywis.

Fair woman they bring him in Shamefast in her burning sin, All afire is his skin Par amors. Look not of her look to win, Dare not lift up her chin, Gobertz; in that soiled fond thing Lo, Tibors!

"O love, O love, out, alas! That it should come to this pass, And thou be even as I was In green youth, Whenas delight and solace Served I with wantonness, And burned anon like the grass To this ruth!"

But then lift she her sad eyes, Gray like wet morning skies, That wait the sun to arise, Tears to amend. "Gobertz, amic," so she cries, "By Jesus' agonies Hither come I by lies Of false friend.

"Sir Richart de Laund he hight, Who fair promised me plight Of word and ring, on a night Of no fame; So then evilly bright Had his will and delight Of me, and fled unrequite For my shame!

"Alas, and now to my thought Flieth the woe that I wrought Thee, Gobertz, that distraught Thou didst fare. Now a vile thing of nought Fare I that once was so haught And free, and could not be taught By thy care."

But Gobertz seeth no less Her honour and her sweetness, Soon her small hand to kiss Taketh he, Saying, "Now for that stress Drave thee here thou shalt bless God, for so ending this Thy penury."

Yet she would bid him away, Seeking her sooth to say, In what woful array She was cast. "Nay," said he, "but, sweet may, Here must we bide until day: Then to church and to pray Go we fast."

Now then to all his talent, Seeing how he was bent, Him the comfort she lent Of her mind. Cried Gobertz, well content, "If love by dreariment Cometh, that was well spent, As I find."

Thereafter somewhat they slept, When to his arms she had crept For comfort, and freely wept Sin away. Up betimes then he leapt, Calling her name: forth she stept Meek, disposed, to accept What he say.

By hill road taketh he her To the gray nuns of Beaucaire, There to shred off her hair And take veil. Himself to cloister will fare Monk to be, with good care For their two souls. May his pray'r Them avail!

1911.

[1] I owe the substance of this lai to my friend Ezra Pound, who unearthed it, {psamatho eilymena polle}, in some Provencal repertory.



THE SAINTS' MAYING

Since green earth is awake Let us now pastime take, Not serving wantonness Too well, nor niggardness, Which monks of men would make.

But clothed like earth in green, With jocund hearts and clean, We will take hands and go Singing where quietly blow The flowers of Spring's demesne.

The cuckoo haileth loud The open sky; no cloud Doth fleck the earth's blue tent; The land laughs, well content To put off winter shroud.

Now, since 'tis Easter Day, All Christians may have play; The young Saints, all agaze For Christ in Heaven's maze, May laugh who wont to pray.

Then welcome to our round They light on homely ground:— Agnes, Saint Cecily, Agatha, Dorothy, Margaret, Hildegonde;

Next come with Barbara Lucy and Ursula; And last, queen of the Nine, Clear-eyed Saint Catherine Joyful arrayeth her.

Then chooseth each her lad, And after frolic had Of dance and carolling And playing in a ring, Seek all the woodland shade.

And there for each his lass Her man a nosegay has, Which better than word spoken Might stand to be her token And emblem of her grace.

For Cecily, who bent Her slim white neck and went To Heaven a virgin still, The nodding daffodil, That bends but is not shent.

Lucy, whose wounded eyes Opened in Heaven star-wise, The lady-smock, whose light Doth prank the grass with white, Taketh for badge and prize.

Because for Lord Christ's hest Men shore thy warm bright breast, Agatha, see thy part Showed in the burning heart Of the white crocus best.

What fate was Barbara's Shut in the tower of brass, We figure and hold up Within the stiff king-cup That crowns the meadow grass.

Agnes, than whose King Death Stayed no more delicate breath On earth, we give for dower Wood-sorrel, that frail flower That Spring first quickeneth.

Dorothy, whose shrill voice Bade Heathendom rejoice, The sweet-breath'd cowslip hath; And Margaret, who in death Saw Heaven, her pearly choice.

Then she of virgin brood Whom Prince of Britain woo'd, Ursula, takes by favour The hyacinth whose savour Enskies the sunny wood.

Hildegonde, whose spirit high The Cross did not deny, Yet blusht to feel the shame, Anemones must claim, Whose roses early die.

Last, she who gave in pledge Her neck to the wheel's edge, Taketh the fresh primrose Which (even as she her foes) Redeems the wintry hedge.

So garlanded, entwined, Each as may prompt her mind, The Saints renew for Earth And Heaven such seemly mirth As God once had design'd.

And when the day is done, And veil'd the goodly Sun, Each man his maid by right Doth kiss and bid Good-night; And home goes every one.

The maids to Heaven do hie To serve God soberly; The lads, their loves in Heaven, What lowly work is given They do, to win the sky.

1896.



THE ARGIVE WOMEN[2]

CHTHONOE MYRTILLA RHODOPE PASIPHASSA GORGO SITYS

* * * * *

SCENE

The women's house in the House of Paris in Troy.

TIME.—The Tenth year of the War.

* * * * *

Helen's women are lying alone in the twilight hour. Chthonoe presently rises and throws a little incense upon the altar flame. Then she begins to speak to the Image of Aphrodite in a low and tired voice.

CHTHONOE

Goddess of burning and little rest, By the hand swaying on thy breast, By glancing eye and slow sweet smile Tell me what long look or what guile Of thine it was that like a spear Pierced her heart, who caged me here In this close house, to be with her Mistress at once and prisoner! Far from earth and her pleasant ways I lie, whose nights are as my days In this dim house, where on the wall I watch the shadows rise and fall And know not what is reckt or done By men and horses out in the sun, Nor heed their traffic, nor their cheer As forth they go or back, but hear The fountain plash into the pond, The brooding doves, and sighs of fond Lovers whose lips yearn as they sever For longer joy, joy such as never Hath man but in the mind. But what Men do without, that I know not Who see them but as shadows thrown Upon a screen. I see them blown Like clouds of flies about the plain Where the winds sweep them and make vain Their panoplies. They hem the verge Of this high wall to guard us—urge Galloping horses into war And meet in shock of battle, far Below us and our dreams: withal Ten years have past us in this thrall Since Helen came with eyes agleam To Troy, and trod the ways of dream.

GORGO

Men came about us, crying, "The Greeks! Ships out at sea with high-held peaks Like questing birds!" But I lay still Kissing, nor turned.

RHODOPE

So I, until The herald broke into my sleep, Crying Agamemnon on the deep With ships from high Mykenai. Then I minded he was King of Men— But not of women in the arms They loved.

MYRTILLA

I heard their shrill alarms Faint and far off, like an old fame. Below this guarded house men came— Chariots and horses clasht; they cried King Agamemnon in his pride, Or Hector, or young Diomede; But I was kissing, could not heed Aught save the eyes that held mine bound. Anon a hush—anon the sound Of hooves resistless, pounding—a cry, "Achilles! Save yourselves!" But I— Clinging I lay, and sighed in sign That love must weary at last, even mine— Even mine, Sweetheart!

PASIPHASSA

Who watcht when flared Lord Hector like a meteor, dared The high stockade and fired the ships? I watcht his lips who had had my lips.

SITYS

And when he slew Menoikios' son, Sister, what then?

PASIPHASSA

My cheek was wan For lack of kissing—so I blew On slumbering lids to draw anew The eyes of him who had loved me well, But now was faint.

CHTHONOE

O Kypris, tell The deeds of men, not lovers!

RHODOPE

Here Came one all palsied in his fear, Chattering and white, to Paris abed, Flusht in his sleep—told Hector dead, Dead and dishonoured, while he slept. He sighed and turned. But Helen wept.

GORGO

Not I. I turned and felt warm draught Of breath upon my cheek, and laught Softly, and snuggling, slept.

CHTHONOE

Fie, fie! Goddess, drugged in thy dreams we lie, Logs, not women, logs in the sun!

SITYS

Thou art sated. So fretteth One, The very fount of Love's sweet well, The chord of Love made visible, Sickened of her own loveliness, Haggard as hawk too long in jess, Aching for flight.

MYRTILLA

Recall the bout When Paris armed him and went out Into the lists, and all men thronged To see——

SITYS

Lord Paris and him he wronged Fight for her, who should have her! We stood Upon the walls, and she with her hood Close to her cheek. But I saw the flicker In her blue eyes!

PASIPHASSA

But I was quicker, And saw the man she looked upon, And after what her blue eyes shone Like cyanus in morning light.

GORGO

Husband and lover she saw fight, Man to man, with death between.

RHODOPE

Hatred coucht, as long and lean As a lone wolf, on her man's crest—

PASIPHASSA

And bit the Trojan!

CHTHONOE

Thine was the rest, Goddess! And Helen lit the fire, With her disdain, of his desire.

MYRTILLA

Her eyes burned like the frosty stars Of winter midnight.

PASIPHASSA

His the scars! Bitten in his wax-pale cheek.

CHTHONOE

Nay, in his heart——

SITYS

Nay, in his bleak And writhen smile you see it!

GORGO

Nay! In his sick soul.

RHODOPE

Let him go his way! Hear my thought of a happier thing— Sparta's trees in flood of spring Where Eurotas' banks abrim Drown the reeds, and foam-clots swim Like a scattered brood of duck!

MYRTILLA

Flowers anod! White flowers to pluck, Stiffened in the foamy curds! Ah, the green thickets quick with birds!

SITYS

Calling Itys! Itys! Itys!

PASIPHASSA

She calls not here—her house it is In Sparta!

RHODOPE (with a sob)

Peace!

CHTHONOE

From my heart a cry— Send me back, Goddess, ere I die To those dear places and clean things— To see my people, feel the wings Of the gray night fold over me, And touch my mother's knees, and be Her child, as long ago I was Before I lay burning in Ilios!

[They hide their faces in their knees. Then one by one they sing.]

Let me sing an old sweet air, Mother of Argos, to Thee, For hope in my heart is fair As light on the hills seen from afar at sea; And my weary eyes turn there As to the haven where my soul would be.

RHODOPE

I will arise and make choice The house of my tumbled breast, For she cometh, I hear the voice Of her wings of healing, and she shall be my guest; And my joys shall be her joys, And my home her home, O wind of the South West!

GORGO

As a bird that listens and thrills, Hidden deep in the night, For the sound of the little rills That run musically towards the light; As a hart to the high hills Turneth his dying eyes, my soul takes flight.

MYRTILLA

Ah, to be folded deep In the shade of Taygetus, In my mother's arms to sleep Even as a child when I lay harboured thus! Oh, that I were as thy sheep, Lacedaemon, my land, cradle and nurse of us!

PASIPHASSA

In Argos they sow the grain, In Troy blood is their sowing; There a green mantle covers the plain Where the sweet green corn and sweet short grass are growing; But here passion and pain— Blood and dust upon earth, and a hot wind blowing.

SITYS

To the hold on the far red hill From the hold on the wide green lea, Over the running water, follow who will Therapnae's hawk with the dove of Amyklae. But I would lie husht and still, And feel the new grass growing quick over me!

[The scene grows dark as they sit. Their eyes are full of tears. Presently one looks up, listening, then another, then another. They are all alert.]

CHTHONOE

Who prayeth peace? I feel her peace Steal through me as a quiet air Enters the house with sweet increase Of light to healing, praise to prayer!

RHODOPE

What do I know of guiltiness When she is here, and with grave eyes Seeketh the ways of quietness And lampeth them?

GORGO

Arise, arise!

[They all stand waiting.]

MYRTILLA

Hark! Her footfall like the dew—

PASIPHASSA

As a flower by frost made sere Long before the sun breaks through, Feeleth him, I know her near.

[Helen stands in the doorway.]

CHTHONOE

This is she, the source of light, Source of light and end of it, Argive Helen, slim and sweet, For whose bosom and delight, For whose eyes, those wells of peace, Paris wrought, as well he might, Ten years' woe for Troy and Greece.

RHODOPE

Starry wonder that she was, Caged like sea-bird in his arms, See her passion thrill, then pass From him who, doting on her charms, So became abominable. Watch her bosom dip and swell, See her nostrils fan and curve At his touch who loved not well, But loved too much, who broke the spell; Watch her proud head stiffen and swerve.

GORGO

Upon the wall with claspt white hands See her vigil keep intent, Argive Helen, lo! she stands Looking seaward where the fires Hem the shore innumerable; Sign of that avenging host, All Achaia's chivalry, Past the tongue of man to tell, Peers and kindred of her sires Come to win back Helen lost.

MYRTILLA

There to her in that gray hour, That gray hour before the sun, Cometh he she waiteth for, Menelaus like a ghost, Like a dry leaf tempest-tost, Stalking restless, her reproach.

PASIPHASSA

There alone, those two, long severed been, Eye each other, one wild heart between.

SITYS

"O thou ruinous face, O thou fatally fair, O the pity of thee! What dost thou there, Watching the madness of me?"

CHTHONOE

Him seemed her eyes were pools of dark To drown him, yet no word she spake; But gazing, grave as a lonely house, All her wonder thrilled to wake.

RHODOPE

"By thy roses and snow, By thy sun-litten hair, By thy low bosom and slow Pondered kisses, O hear!

"By thy glimmering eyes, By thy burning cheek, By thy murmuring sighs, Speak, Helen, O speak!

"Ruinous Face, O Ruinous Face, Art thou come so early," he said, "So early forth from the wicked bed?"

GORGO

Him she pondered, grave and still, Stirring not from her safe place: He marked the glow, he felt the thrill, He saw the dawn new in her face.

MYRTILLA

Within her low voice wailed the tone Of one who grieves and prays for death: "Lord, I am come to be alone, Alone here with my sorrow," she saith.

PASIPHASSA

"False wife, what pity was thine For hearth and altar, for man and child? What is thy sorrow worth unto mine?" She rocked, moaning, "I was beguiled!"

SITYS

Ten years' woe for Troy and Greece By her begun, the slim, the sweet, Ended by her in final peace Of him who loved her first of all; Nor ever swerved from his high passion, But through misery and shame Saw her spirit like a flame Eloquent of her sacred fashion— Hers whose eyes are homes of light, To which she tends, from which she came.

1912.

[2] Helen Redeemed, the first poem in this book, was originally conceived as a drama. Here is a scene from it, the first after the Prologue, which would have been spoken by Odysseus. The action of the play would have begun with the entry of Helen.



GNATHO

Gnatho, Satyr, homing at dusk, Trotting home like a tired dog, By mountain slopes 'twixt the junipers And flamed oleanders near the sea, Found a girl-child asleep in a fleece, Frail as wax, golden and rose; Whereat at first he skipt aside And stayed him, nosing and peering, whereto Next he crept, softly breathing, Blinking his fear. None was there To guard; the sun had dipt in the sea, Faint fire empurpled the flow Of heaving water; no speck, no hint Of oar or wing on the main, on the deep Sky, empty as a great shell, Fainting in its own glory. This thing, This rare breath, this miracle— Alone with him in the world! His To wonder, fall to, with craning eyes Fearfully daring; next, since it moved not, Stooping, to handle, to stroke, to peer upon Closely, nosing its tender length, Doglike snuffing—at last to kiss In reverence wonderful, lightlier far Than thistledown falls, brushing the Earth. But the child awoke and, watching him, cried not, Cruddled visage, choppy hands, Blinking eyes, red-litten, astare, Horns and feet—nay, crowed and strained To reach this wonder. As one a glass Light as foam, hued like the foam, A breath-bubble of fire, will carry, He in arms lifted his freight, Looking wonderfully upon it With scarce a breath, and humbleness To be so brute ebbed to the flood Of pride in his new assured worth— Trusted so, who could be vile?

So to his cave in the wood he bore her, Fleeting swift as a fear thro' the dark trees.

There in the silence of tall trees, Under the soaring shafts, Far beneath the canopied leafage, In the forest whisper, the thick silences; Or on the wastes Of sheltered mountains where the spires Of solemn cypress frame the descent Upon the blue, and open to sea— Here grew Ianthe maiden slim With none to spy but this gnarled man-brute; Most fair, most hid, like a wood-flower Slim for lack of light; so she grew In flowering line of limb And flower of face, retired and shy, Urged by the bland air; unknown, Lonely and lovely, husbanding Her great possessions—hers now, Another's when he cared to claim them. For thus went life: to lead the herds Of pricking deer she saw the great stags Battle in empty glades, then mate; Thus on the mountains chose the bears, And in the woods she heard the wolves Anguishing in their loves Thro' the dense nights, far in the forest. And so collected went she, and sure Her time would come and with it her master.

But Gnatho watcht her under his brows When she lay heedless, spilling beauty— How ever lovelier, suppler, sleeker, How more desirable, how near; How rightly his, how surely his— Then gnaw'd his cheek and turn'd his head.

For unsuspect, some dim forbidding Rose within him and knockt at his heart And said, Not thine, but for reverence. And some wild horror desperate drove him, Suing a pardon from unknown Gods For untold trespass, to seek the sea, Upon whose shore, to whose cool breathing He'd stretch his arms, broken with strife Of self and self; and all that water Steadfast lapt and surged. Came tears To furrow his cheeks, came strength to return To her, and bear with longer breath Her sweet familiarities, blind Obedience to nascent blind desire— Till again he lookt and burn'd again.

Thus his black ferment boil'd. O' nights He'd dream and revel frenziedly As with the love-stung nymphs. Awake, In a chill sweat, he'd tear at himself, Claw at his flesh and leap in the brook, Drench the red embers of his vice Into a mass abhorred. Clean then, He'd seek his bed and pass unscath'd The bower of fern where the sleek limbs Of white Ianthe, mesht in her hair, Lay lax in sleep. But Gnatho now Saw only God, as on some still peak Snowy and lonely under the stars We look, and see God in all that calm.

One night of glamour, under a moon That seemed to steep the air with gold, They two sat stilly and watcht the sea Tremulously heaving over a path Of light like a river of molten gold. Warm blew the breeze to land; she lean'd Her idle head, idly played Her fingers in his belt, and he Embracing held her, yielding, subdued; Sideways saw the curve of her cheek, Downcast lashes, droopt lip Which seem'd to court his pleasure— Then On waves of fire came racing his needs With zest of rage to possess and tear That which his frenzy, maskt as love, Courted: so he lean'd to her ear, Thrilled in torrents hoarse his case— "Love, I burn, I burn! Slake me, love!" He raved in whisper. And she lookt up with her wide full eyes, Saying, "My love!" and yielded herself.

Deep night settled on hill and plain, The moon went out, the concourse of stars Lay strewn above, and with golden eyes Peered on them lockt. Far and faint The great stags belled; far and faint Quested the wolves; the leopards' howling Lent desolation to night; and low The night-jar purr'd. At sea one light Swayed restlessly, and on the rocks Sounded the tireless lapping deep. Lockt they lay thro' all the silences.

Dawn stole in with whimper of rain And a wailing wind from the sea— Gray sea, gray dawn and scurrying clouds And scud of rain. The fisher boat, The sands, the headlands fringed with broom And tamarisk were blotted. Alone, Caged in the mist of earth That beat his torment back to himself, So that in vain he sought for the Gods, And lifted up hands in vain To witness this white wreck prone and still— Gnatho the Satyr blinkt on his work.

1898-1912.



TO THE GODS OF THE COUNTRY

Sun and Moon, shine upon me; Make glad my days and clear my nights!

O Earth, whose child I am, Grant me thy patience!

O Heaven, whose heir I may be, Keep quick my hope!

Your steadfastness I need, O Hills; O Rain, thy kindness!

Snow, keep me pure; O Fire, teach me thy pride!

From you, ye Winds, I ask your blitheness!

1909.



FOURTEEN SONNETS

1896

ALMA SDEGNOSA

Not that dull spleen which serves i' the world for scorn, Is hers I watch from far off, worshipping As in remote Chaldaea the ancient king Adored the star that heralded the morn. Her proud content she bears as a flag is borne Tincted the hue royal; or as a wing It lifts her soaring, near the daylight spring, Whence, if she lift, our days must pass forlorn.

The pure deriving of her spirit-state Is so remote from men and their believing, They shrink when she is cold, and estimate That hardness which is but a God's dismay: As when the Heaven-sent sprite thro' Hell sped cleaving, Only the gross air checkt him on his way.

THE WINDS' POSSESSION

When winds blow high and leaves begin to fall, And the wan sunlight flits before the blast; When fields are brown and crops are garnered all, And rooks, like mastered ships, drift wide and fast; Maid Artemis, that feeleth her young blood Leap like a freshet river for the sea, Speedeth abroad with hair blown in a flood To snuff the salt west wind and wanton free.

Then would you know how brave she is, how high Her ancestry, how kindred to the wind, Mark but her flashing feet, her ravisht eye That takes the boist'rous weather and feels it kind: And hear her eager voice, how tuned it is To Autumn's clarion shrill for Artemis.

ASPETTO REALE

That hour when thou and Grief were first acquainted Thou wrotest, "Come, for I have lookt on death." Piteous I held my indeterminate breath And sought thee out, and saw how he had painted Thine eyes with rings of black; yet never fainted Thy radiant immortality underneath Such stress of dark; but then, as one that saith, "I know Love liveth," sat on by death untainted.

O to whom Grief too poignant was and dry To sow in thee a fountain crop of tears! O youth, O pride, set too remote and high For touch of solace that gives grace to men! Thy life must be our death, thy hopes our fears: We weep, thou lookest strangely—we know thee then!

KIN CONFESSED

Long loving, all our love was husbanded Until one morning on the brown hillside, One misty Autumn morn when Sun did hide His radiance, yet was felt. No words we said, But in one flash transfigured, glorified, All her heart's tumult beating white and red, She fell prone on her face and hid her wide Over-brimmed eyes in dewy fern. I prayed, Then spake, "In us two now is manifest That throbbing kindred whereof thou art graft And I the grafted, in this holy place." She, turning half, with sober shame confest Discovery, then hid her rosy face. I read her wilding heart, and my heart laught.

QUEL GIORNO PIU ...

That day—it was the last of many days, Nor could we know when such days might be given Again—we read how Dante trod the ways Of utmost Hell, and how his heart was riven By sad Francesca, whose sin was forgiven So far that, on her Paolo fixing gaze, She supt on his again, and thought it Heaven, She knew her gentler fate and felt it praise.

We read that lovers' tale; each lookt at each; But one was fearless, innocent of guile; So did the other learn what she could teach: We read no more, we kiss'd not, but a smile Of proud possession flasht, hover'd a while 'Twixt soul and soul. There was no need for speech.

ABSENCE

When she had left us but a little while Methought I sensed her spirit here and there About my house: upon the empty stair Her robe brusht softly; o'er her chamber still There lay her fragrant presence to beguile Numb heart, dead heart. I knelt before her chair, And praying felt her hand laid on my hair, Felt her sweet breath, and guess'd her wistful smile.

Then thro' my tears I lookt about the room, But she was gone. I heard my heart beat fast; The street was silent; I could not see her now. Sorrow and I took up our load, and past To where our station was with heads bent low, And autumn's death-moan shiver'd thro' the gloom.

PRESENCE

When she had left us but a little while, I still could hear the ringing of her voice, Still see athwart the dusk her shy half-smile And that sweet trust wherein I most rejoice.

Then in her self-same tones I heard, "Go thou, Set to that work appointed thee to do, Remembering I am with thee here and now, Watchful as ever. See, my eyes shine true!"

I lookt, and saw the concourse of clear stars, Steadfast, of limpid candour, and could discover Her soul look on me thro' the prison-bars Which slunk like sin from such an honest Lover:

And thro' the vigil-pauses of that night She beam'd on me; and my soul felt her light.

DREAM ANGUISH

My thought of thee is tortured in my sleep— Sometimes thou art near beside me, but a cloud Doth grudge me thy pale face, and rise to creep Slowly about thee, to lap thee in a shroud; And I, as standing by my dead, to weep Desirous, cannot weep, nor cry aloud. Or we must face the clamouring of a crowd Hissing our shame; and I who ought to keep Thine honour safe and my betrayed heart proud, Knowing thee true, must watch a chill doubt leap The tired faith of thee, and thy head bow'd, Nor budge while the gross world holdeth thee cheap!

Or there are frost-bound meetings, and reproach At parting, furtive snatches full of fear; Love grown a pain; we bleed to kiss, and kiss Because we bleed for love; the time doth broach Shame, and shame teareth at us till we tear Our hearts to shreds—yet wilder love for this!

HYMNIA-BEATRIX

Before you pass and leave me gaunt and chill Alone to do what I have joyed in doing In your glad sight, suffer me, nor take ill If I confess you prize and me pursuing. As the rapt Tuscan lifted up his eyes Whither his Lady led, and lived with her, Strong in her strength, and in her wisdom wise, Love-taught with song to be her thurifer; So I, that may no nearer stand than he To minister about the holy place, Am well content to watch my Heaven in thee And read my Credo in thy sacred face. For even as Beatrix Dante's wreath did bind, So, Hymnia, hast thou imparadised my mind.

LUX E TENEBRIS

I thank all Gods that I can let thee go, Lady, without one thought, one base desire To tarnish that clear vision I gained by fire, One stain in me I would not have thee know. That is great might indeed that moves me so To look upon thy Form, and yet aspire To look not there, rather than I should mire That winged Spirit that haunts and guards thy brow.

So now I see thee go, secure in this That what I have is thee, that whole of thee Whereof thy fair infashioning is sign: For I see Honour, Love, and Wholesomeness, And striving ever to reach them, and to be As they, I keep thee still; for they are thine.

DUTY

Oh, I am weak to serve thee as I ought; My shroud of flesh obscures thy deity, So thy sweet Spirit that should embolden me To shake my wings out wide, serves me for nought, But receives tarnish, vile dishonour, wrought By that thou earnest to bless—O agony And unendurable shame! that, loving thee, I dare not love, fearing my poisonous thought!

Man is too vile for any such high grace, For that he seeks to honour he can but mar; So had I rather shun thy starry face And fly the exultation to know thee near— For if one glance from me wrought thee a scar 'Twould not be death, but life that I should fear.

WAGES

Sometimes the spirit that never leaves me quite Taps at my heart when thou art in the way, Saying, Now thy Queen cometh: therefore pray, Lest she should see thee vile, and at the sight Shiver and fly back piteous to the light That wanes when she is absent. Then, as I may, I wash my soiled hands and muttering, say, Lord, make me clean; robe Thou me in Thy white!

So for a brief space, clad in ecstasy, Pure, disembodied, I fall to kiss thy feet, And sense thy glory throbbing round about; Whereafter, rising, I hold thee in a sweet And gentle converse that lifts me up to be, When thou art gone, strange to the gross world's rout.

EYE-SERVICE

Meseems thine eyes are two still-folded lakes Wherein deep water reflects the guardian sky, Searching wherein I see how Heaven is nigh And our broad Earth at peace. So my Love takes My soul's thin hands and, chafing them, she makes My life's blood lusty and my life's hope high For the strong lips and eyes of Poesy, To hold the world well squandered for their sakes.

I looked thee full this day: thine unveiled eyes Rayed their swift-searching magic forth; and then I felt all strength that love can put in men Whenas they know that loveliness is wise. For love can be content with no less prize, To lift us up beyond our mortal ken.

CLOISTER THOUGHTS

(AT WESTMINSTER)

Within these long gray shadows many dead Lie waiting: we wait with them. Do you believe That at the last the threadbare soul will give All his shifts over, and stand dishevelled, Naked in truth? Then we shall hear it said, "Ye two have waited long, daring to live Grimly through days tormented; now reprieve Awaiteth you with all these ancient dead!"

The slope sun letteth down thro' our dark bars His ladder from the skies. Hand fast in hand, With quiet hearts and footsteps quiet and slow, Like children venturous in an unknown land We will come to the fields whose flowers are stars, And kneeling ask, "Lord, wilt Thou crown us now?"



THE CHAMBER IDYLL

The blue night falleth, the moon Is over the hill; make fast, Fasten the latch, I am tired: come soon, Come! I would sleep at last In your bosom, my love, my love!

The airy chamber above Has the lattice ajar, that night May breathe upon you and me, my love, And the moon bless our marriage-rite— Come, lassy, to bed, to bed!

The roof-thatch overhead Shall cover the stars' bright eyes; The fleecy quilt shall be coverlid For your meek virginities, And your wedding, my bride, my bride!

See, we are side to side, Virgin in deed and name— Come, for love will not be denied, Tarry not, have no shame: Are we not man and bride?

1894.



EPIGRAMMATA

1910

THE OLD HOUSE

Mossy gray stands the House, four-square to the wind, Embosomed in the hills. The garden old Of yew and box and fishpond speaks her mind, Sweet-ordered, quaint, recluse, fold within fold Of quietness; but true and choice and kind— A sober casket for a heart of gold.

BLUE IRIS

Blue is the Adrian sea, and darkly blue The AEgean; and the shafted sun thro' them, That fishes grope to, gives the beamy hue Rayed from her iris's deep diadem.

THE ROSEBUD

In June I brought her roses, and she cupt One slim bud in her hand and cherisht it, And put it to her mouth. Rose and she supt Each other's sweetness; but the flower was lit By her kind eyes, and glowed. Then in her breast She laid it blushing, warm and doubly blest.

SPRING ON THE DOWN

When Spring blows o'er the land, and sunlight flies Across the hills, we take the upland way. I have her waist, the wooing wind her eyes And lips and cheeks. His kissing makes her gay As flowers. "Thou hast two lovers, O my dear," Say I; and she, "He takes what thou dost fear."

SNOWY NIGHT

The snow lies deep, ice-fringes hem the thatch; I knock my shoes, my Love lifts me the latch, Shows me her eyes—O frozen stars, they shine Kindly! I clasp her. Quick! her lips are mine.

EVENING MOOD

Late, when the sun was smouldering down the west, She took my arm and laid her cheek to me; The fainting twilight held her, and I guess'd All she would tell, but could not let me see— Wonder and joy, the rising of her breast, And confidence, and still expectancy.

THE PARTING

Breathless was she and would not have us part: "Adieu, my Saint," I said, "'tis come to this." But she leaned to me, one hand at her heart, And all her soul sighed trembling in a kiss.



DEDICATION OF A BOOK

To the Fountain of my long Dream, To the Chalice of all my Sorrow, To the Lamp held up, and the Stream Of Light that beacons the Morrow;

To the Bow, the Quiver and Dart, To the Bridle-rein, to the Yoke Proudly upborne, to the Heart On Fire, to the Mercy-stroke;

To Apollo herding his Cattle, To Proserpina grave in Dis; To the high Head in the Battle, And the Crown—I consecrate this.

1911.



Printed by R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinburgh.



BY MAURICE HEWLETT

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THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

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