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diff --git a/old/62456-0.txt b/old/62456-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index d140af3..0000000 --- a/old/62456-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3299 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Heliodora, by Hilda Doolittle - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Heliodora - And Other Poems - -Author: Hilda Doolittle - -Release Date: June 23, 2020 [EBook #62456] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HELIODORA *** - - - - -Produced by Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - 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. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Heliodora, by Hilda Doolittle - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HELIODORA *** - -***** This file should be named 62456-0.txt or 62456-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/4/5/62456/ - -Produced by Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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