The Project Gutenberg eBook of Heliodora, and Other Poems

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Title: Heliodora, and Other Poems

Author: H. D.

Release date: June 23, 2020 [eBook #62456]

Most recently updated: January 24, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HELIODORA, AND OTHER POEMS ***

H E L I O D O R A

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.

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.

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Table of Contents

Heliodora

Note

Holy Satyr

Lais

Heliodora

Helen

Nossis

Centaur Song

Oread

The Pool

Thetis

At Ithaca

We Two

Fragment Thirty-six

Flute Song

After Troy

Cassandra O Hymen king.

Epigrams

1

2

Fragment Forty Love ... bitter-sweet. SAPPHO

1

2

3

4

5

Toward the Piræus

1

2

3

4

5

Moonrise

At Eleusis

Fragment Forty-one ... thou flittest to Andromeda. SAPPHO

1

2

3

Telesila

Fragment Sixty-eight ... even in the house of Hades. SAPPHO

1

2

3

Lethe

Sitalkas

Hermonax

Orion Dead

Charioteer

The Look-out

Odyssey

From the Masque Hyacinth

1

2

3

4

The bird-choros of Ion

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