THE TEMPLEMy knees, bent on thy marble pavement, bleed,O Temple built apart in wildernessFor an unseen divinity, a goddessWho from her being's deep abyss revealsOnly a statue wrought by human handAnd even covered with a veil opaque.Methinks I see among thy sculptured columns,Among thy secret treasures and thine altars,Ion, the Delphic priest, who lays asideThe snow-white raiment of the sacrificeAnd takes up the wayfarer's knotty staff.I am no ministrant, nor have I heldThe dreadful mystic key, nor have I touchedBoldly or timidly the sacred gateThat leads to Life's deep-hidden mysteries.One sinner more, O Temple, in the midstOf sinful multitudes, I come to worship.My knees, bent on thy marble pavement, bleed;I feel the chill of night or of the tombCreeping upon me slowly, stealthily.But lo, I struggle to shake off the evilThat creeps on me so cold; with longing heart,I drag my bleeding knees beyond thy walls,Out of thy columns—forests stifling me—Into the sunlight and the moon's soft glimmer.Away with prayer's burning frankincense!Away with the gold knife of the sacrifice!Away with choirs loud-voiced and clad in white,Singing their hymns about the flaming altars!Abandoning thee, O Temple, I returnTo the small hut of the first bloom of time.THE HUTO humble hut of the first bloom of time,Neither the noisy city's mingled Babel,Nor the most tranquil soul of the great plain,Nor the gold cloud of dust on the wide road,Nor the brook's course that sings like nightingales,Nothing of these is either shown to theeOr speaks before thy bare and flowerless window,O humble hut of the first bloom of time.Only the neighbor's step now echoes onFrom the rough pavement built in Turkish times;The black wall's shadow, on the narrow street;And on the lonely ruins lightning-struckEre they became the glory of a house,The nettles revel lustful and unreaped.Beneath the bare and flowerless window's sill,A nest of greenish black, like a small heart,Hangs tenantless and waits and waits and waitsIn vain for the return of the first swallowThat has gone forth, its first and last of dwellers.O thirsty eyes that linger magnet-boundOn the nest's orphanhood of greenish black!O ears filled with the terror of the tuneThat travels to the bare and flowerless windowHigh from thy roof moss-covered with neglect,O humble hut of the first bloom of time!It is the tune the lone-owl always playsBlowing upon the cursèd flute of nightIts lingering shrill notes of mournful measure,Herald of woe and prophet of all ill.THE RINGThe ring is lost! The wedding ring is gone!A folk song.My mother planned a wedding feast for meAnd chose me for a wife a Nereid,A tender flower of beauty and of faith.My mother wished to wed me with thy charms,O Fairy Life, thou first of Nereids!And hastily she goes to seek advice,Begging for gold from every sorceressAnd powerful witch, and gold from forty bridesWhose wedding crowns are fresh upon their brows;And making with the gold a ring enchanted,She puts it on my finger and she bindsWith golden bond my youthful human fleshTo the strange Fairy—how strange a wedding ring!—I was the boy that always older grewWith the transporting passion of a pairBethrothed who, lured by longing, countenanceTheir wedding moment as an endless feastUpon a bridal bed of lily white.The boy I was that always older grewGold-bound with Life, the Fairy conqueress;The boy I was that always older grewWith love and thirst unquenchable for Life;The boy I was that always older grewDestined to tread upon a path untrodAmidst the light, illumined. I was heWhose brow like an Olympian victor's shoneAnd like the man's who tamed Bucephalus.I was the nimble dolphin with gold wings,Arion's watchful and quick deliverer.But then, one day,—I know not whence and how—Upon a shore of sunburned sands, the hourOf early evening saddened with dark clouds,I wrestled with a strange black boy new-come,Risen to life from the great sea's abyss;And in the savage spite of that long struggle,The ring fell from my finger and was gone!Did the great earth engulf it? Did the waveSwallow it? I know not. But this I know:For ever since, the binding spell is rent!And Fairy Life, the first of Nereids,My own bethrothed, that was my slave and queen,Vanished away like a fleet cloud of smoke!And ever since, from my first-blooming youthTo the first flakes of silver that now fallOn the black forest of my hair, since then,Some power dumb and dreadful holds me boundWith a mere shadow fleeting and unknownThat seems not to exist, yet ever longsAnd vainly strives to enter into being.And now I am Life's widowed mate and hapless,Life's great and careless patient! Woe is me!And I am like the fair Alcithoe,Daughter of the ancient king, who changed her formAnd as a sign of the gods' vengeful wrathIs now instead of princess a night-bat!THE CORD GRASS FESTIVALSee far away, what a glad festivalThe golden grasses on the meadow weave!A festival thrice-fragrant with blond flowers!With the sweet sunrise sweetly wakening,I also wish to join the festivalAnd, like a treasure reaper, to embraceMasses of flowers blond and fresh with dew,And then to squander all my flower treasureAt my love's feet, for my heart's ruling queen.But the gold-spangled meadow spreads too deep;And, just as mourning for some dead deprivesA life rejoicing with its twenty yearsOf its light raiments of a lily-white,So is my swift and merry way cut shortBy a bad way that lies between, withoutAn end, beset with brambles and with marshes!The thorny plants tear like an enemy's claws;And like bird-lime the bad plain's mire ensnaresMy feet among the brambles and the marshes,Where, in the parching sun's enflaming shafts,The brine, like silver lightning, strikes my eyes!Where is the coolness of a breath? Where isThe covering shadow of a leafy tree?I faint! My frame is bent! My way is lost!I droop exhausted on the briny earth,And in my lethargy I feel the thornsUpon my brow; the bitter brine uponMy lips; the sultriness of the south windUpon my hands; the kisses of the marshUpon my feet; the rushes' fondling onMy breast; and the hard fate and impotenceOf this bare world within me.Where art thou,My love?See far, in depths of purple sunsetsGorgeously painted, the glad festivalThat golden grasses on the meadow weave,The festival thrice-fragrant with blond flowers,Sees me, and calls me still, and waits for me!THE FAIRYWhen in the evening on my hut the moonSpreads her soft silver nets that dreams have wrought,The hut is caught, and, by the net bewitched,It changes and becomes a lofty tower.And then, unseen by the Day's Sun, the fatherOf Health, the rosy-cheeked, who always seesAll things with careless and short-sighted eyes,A monstrous vision lo, the Fairy Illness,Stripped in the silver glimmer of the moon,Herself of moonlight born, looms into sightSlowly in the enchanted tower's midst!In whitening shimmers, she, like sea at night,Advances with the step of sleeping men;Death's pallor is her own, though not Death's chill;Her ivory skeleton is mantled byA fleshy cover made of fiery air;The uncouth flowers on her dragging veilSeem, like the poppies, crimson red and black;And still more uncouth look the countless thingsWrought on its folds: dragons and ogresses,Fevers and lethargies and pains of heart,Nightmares and storms and earthquakes, breaking nerves.Delirium flies from her burning lips,A language made of odd, discordant rhythms.To nothing, either hers or strange, her eyesAre like; deep, as abyss untrod, they yawn,And seem as if they gaze immovableOn empty space. Yet shouldst thou stoop with thirstTo mirror on her staring eyes thine own,Then wouldst thou see worlds buried in their caves,Like ruined cities of whole centuries,Sunk in the fairy-spangled oceans' depths!OUT IN THE OPEN LIGHTOut in the open light, the Sun is shining,Father of Health, Health rosy cheeked, whose breastsAre full, and yield their milk abundantly;She only sees those things of flesh aboutWhich her divine sun-father shows to her;And her unconquerable iron handsAre matched with careless and short-sighted eyes.Out in the open light, even the moon,The Sibyl, clothed in white, appears, with glanceLyncean, piercing deep and bringing forthFrom the world's ends great hosts of monstrous things,The monsters born of shadows and of dreams.FIRST LOVEWhen in my breast I felt my first-born love,Thrice-noble maiden of compliant heart,I was possessed with the strange fear that filledThe youthful princess of the ancient taleAt sight of the black man's enchanted rod.O mate, who madest first my early yearsBlossom, too soon thou fleddest far from meNor sawest me again! Wild Fairies tookMy speech, and evil demons seized my all;Yet soul and body, my whole being shiversFrom that awakening thou sangest me,Eternal Woman! Thou wert what far MeccaIs for the faithful's prayer to his prophet.O far off Mecca! O eternal FearOf white Desire upon the shining wingsOf a black sinner! O king Love, chased likeOrestes, by a Fury serpent-haired!THE MADMANA madman chased my early childhood yearsThrice-sweet and blossoming, and seizing them—Alas!—he crushed them in his reckless furyLike twigs of purple-colored pomegranate!He scattered them in pieces everywhere:Into the joyless house and in the yard,On narrow streets, and paths, and pathless haunts,Where persecution raves, and menace dumbChills all away from the pure light and air.The madman's cursed hands hold everythingWith snares and claws and stones and knives; they fallOn loneliness and on embracings, nightOr day, on sleep or wake, and everywhere!And yonder on the streets and in the houses,Children like me in age, whose years were filledWith bloom and sweetness, freely ran and laughedAnd played. Behind me, close, the madman's snaresI heard; and then, the deadened sound of feet!I breathed his flaming breath! And if his stepsWere slow, still wilder did his laughter hunt me!Oh, for my life's cold quiverings of pain!Oh, for the goading—not like the divineGoading that drove the maid of Inachus,Io, to wander on and on in frenzy;—But like the sudden goading that smites downThe little bird when first it tries its wings!And lo, blood of my blood the madman was!A past, ancestral, long forgotten sin,That, bursting forth upon me vampire-like,Snatched from my head the dewy crown of joy!OUR HOMEOur home has not the ugly clamoringNor the dumb stillness of the other homesAbout and opposite. For in our homeRare birds sing forth uncommon melodies;And in our home-yard a young offshoot grows,Sprung from Dodona's tree oracular!And in the garden of our home, full thick,The ironworts and snakeroots blossom on;And in our home the magic mirror shinesReflecting always in its gleaming glassThe visage of the world thrice-wonderful!The silence of our home is full of moans,Moans vague and muffled from a distant worldOf bygone ages and of times unborn;And in our home souls come to life and die.Blossom from blossom blossoms forth and fades!Old men have the white, rich, Levitic beard,The foreheads wide of solemn contemplation,The wrath of prophets, and the fleeting calmAnd chilling threatfulness of the gray shadows.Glowing with love-heat like resistless Satyrs,The young men in the mind's most shady gladesHunt ardently the bride that is pure thought.The children drop their playthings carelessly,And, standing in a corner motionless,Open their eyes in thought like men full-grown.And all, ancestors and descendants, youngOr old, have ways that challenge ridiculeAnd have the word that bursting forth makes slaves!But still more beautiful and pure than these,An harmony fit for the chosen fewFills with its ringing sounds our dwelling place,A lightning sent from Sinai and a gleamFrom great Olympus, like the mingling soundsOf David's harp and Pindar's lyre conversingIn the star-spangled darkness of the night.THE DEADWithin this place, I breathe a dead man's soul;And the dead man, a blond and beardless youth!A youthful light and blond stirs in our home;And moments fly, and days and years and ages.The dead man's soul is in this lonely houseLike bitter quiet about a calm-bound shipThat longs for the sea-paths, and dreams of storms.All faces, smoked with the faint smoke that glidesFrom candles lighting death! All eyes, still fixedOn a sad coffin! And the mute lips, tingedWith the last kiss's bitterness, still tremble.As for a prayer, hands are raised, and feetMove quietly as behind a funeral.The snow-white nakedness of the cold wallsAnd black luxuriance of the mourning robesAre like discordant music of two tunes.The children's step is light in thoughtful careLest they disturb the slumber of the dead.The old men, bent as at a pit's dark end,Lean on the virgins' shoulders, virgins fairLike fates benevolent and comforting.The young men seek on endless paths to findIn Wisdom's hands the weed Oblivion.And on the window shutters that are closed,The clay pots with their flowers seem to beA dead man's wreath; and the lone ray that glidesThrough the small fissure is transformed withinInto a taper's light on All Souls' Day.The candle burning at the sacred imageIs flickering and snaps as if it wrestledWith death. At moments, led astray, comes hereA butterfly of varied wings and bringsIn airy flesh theAveof the soulThat did enchant the house, the house that seemsGlad for its dead yet loves and longs for him,The dead blond youth, and claims him as its own!And luring him, that it might hold for everIts chosen love relentlessly, it hasNow changed its form and turned from house to grave!THE COMRADEO boy of the glad school of seven years,With thy tall form, a shadow of all thou wert.Thy voice had sweetness never heard before,A font of holy water of which allPartook with fear and longing! We forgotWith thee the book and laughed thy merry laughter;Thou didst tear lifeless readings from our mindsTogether with the pedant's torpid mullen,And didst sow deep into our hearts the seedOf the gold tree that dazzles with its light,And charms, and is a tale most wonderful!The princesses, with valiant heroes mated,Shone in the hauntless palace of our thought,First-born; and on imagination's meadow,Another April bloomed. We saw Saint George,The rider, slay the dragon and redeemThe maiden. They were not letters that thy hand'sWhite clay did write, but like the mystic sealOf Solomon, it scratched a magic knot;And thy forefinger moved within thy handLike fair Dionysus' thyrsus blossoming!Amidst the restless swarm of humming children,We had the clamor; and thou hadst the honey,Turning attention to a prayer, thou,O comrade of the early years that bloomed,O chosen being, unforgettable,Worthy of everlasting memory!Wherever thou still art or wanderest;Whomever thou hast followed of the twoWomen, who, in the past, did stir Alcmena'sGreat son, after thou camest upon themOn some crosspath; whether thou blossomestLike the pure lily, or tower-like thou risest;Whether thou art neglected like a crumb,Shinest as thy country's pride, or art alone,A stranger among strangers wandering;Whether life's riddle or the grave's holds thee;Whatever and wherever thou now art,O brother mine and mate, from my lips hereAccept my distant kiss with godlike grace!RHAPSODYHomer divine! Joy of all time and glory!When in the coldness of a frigid school,Upon the barrenness of a hard bench,My teacher's graceless hands placed thee before me,O peerless book, what I had thought would beA lesson, proved a mighty miracle!The heavens opened wide and clear in me;The sea, a sapphire sown with emerald;The bench became a throne palatial;The school, a world; the teacher, a great bard!It was not reading nor the fruit of thought:A vision it was that shone most wonderful,A melody my ears had never heard.In the great cavern that a forest deepOf poplars and of cypresses encircles,In the great fragrant cavern that the glowOf burning cedar beats with pleasant warmth,Calypso of the shining hair spins notHer web with golden shuttle; nor sings sheWith limpid voice. But lifting up her hands,She pours her curses from her flaming heartAgainst the jealous gods:"O mortal menAdored by the immortal goddesses,Who on Olympus shared with you their love'sAmbrosia, and mortals crushed to dustBy jealous gods!..."The goddess's awful curseMakes the fresh celeries and violets fade,And, like the hail sent by the heaven's wrath,It burns the clusters on the fruitful vines!The hero far renowned of IthacaAlone heeds not the flaming curse, that he,A wanderer, in the Nymph's heart did lightUnwittingly. But sea-wrecked and sea-beaten,He sits without, immovable, with eyesFixed far away; and thus rememberingHis native island's shores, for ever weepsUpon the coast and near the sea thrice-deep.The white sea-gull that often in its flightPlunges its wings into the brine to catchThe fish, and the lone falcon perched afarIn the deep forest, lonely and remote,Listen and answer to the hero's wail.Oh, for my phantasy's revealed first vision!Oh, for the baring of the beautifulBefore me! Lo, the dusty, dark-brown landChanges into a Nymph's isle lily-white!The humble fisher lass upon the rock,Into Calypso of the shining hair, love-born!My heart, a traveller into a thousandLands, thirsting for one country, which is love!And lo, my soul is, ever since, a lyreOf double strings that echoes with its soundThe harmony thrice ancient, curse or wail!Joy of all time and glory, godlike Homer!IDYLNow when the tide has covered all the land,Making the pier a sea, the street a strand,And the boat casts anchor at my threshold;Now when I see, wherever I may glance,The water's victory, the billow's glory,And see the rising tide a ruling empress;Now when a playful and good-minded floodCloses about the houses, plants, and menFondly, in a soft-flowing, sweet embrace;Now when the air, the planter of the treeOf Health, raised by the great sea's breath, digs deepInto the open breasts of living things;Now, I remember her, the little lassWho had the sea's pure dew, and, like a waveResistless, surpassed the tide in vehemence.Now I recall the little nimble lass,Life's victory, blossoming youth's proud glory,And joy's own throne. Now I remember her.Her face was like a cloudless early dawn;Her hair like moonlight shimmering uponThe restless wave; her passing, like the flashOf a swift fish that in the night swims byUpon its silver path; her eyes were tingedWith the deep color of the sea beneathBlack clouds; her voice, the sound of a calm nightUpon the beach; her chiseled dimples twinUpon her cheeks were overfilled with smilesThat Loves might drink from them to slake their thirst.Boy-like, she stepped on nimble foot and free,Boldly and daringly with fearless look,A child's soul dwelling in a woman's flesh.And when the high tide covered all the land,Making the pier a sea, the street a strand,And when the boat cast anchor at my threshold,Then from her home the little girl came forthHalf bare, half clad, robed in the robe of lightIn a swift dancing flood that revelled fullOf water-lust and crowns of seething foam.She gave her orders to the sea; she ruledThe tide and forward drove the foaming waves,Just as a shepherd lass, her white-clad sheep.Her native country, first and last, the sea!And whenever she passed, a Venus newSeemed rising from the shining water's depths.The fisherman, a primitive world's breed,The sum of Christian and of Satyr blood,Returning from his fruitful fishing path,Looked upon her as on an evil tempterAnd on a sacred image; and his oarsHung on his hands inert as palsy stricken,And the swift-winging bark stood like a rock;And, marble-like, the fisherman withinGazed with religious trembling and desire,Exclaiming as in trance: "O holy Virgin!"AT THE WINDMILLAbout the windmill, the old ruin, whenThe smile of dawn shines in its rosy tinge,The fisherboys now stir the silent airWith sudden ringing shouts and joyful plays;And the light barks that, fastened, wait their coming,Flutter impatiently like flapping wingsOf birds whose feet are bound. And all about,The lake-like sea revels in shimmers whiteLike a wide-open pearl shell on the beach.About the windmill, the old ruin, whenThe noon's beams burn like red-hot iron bars,A laden sleep draws with its heavy breathAll weary skippers and all mariners:The harpoons creak not in the hand's hard clasp;The fish alone stir in the realm of dew;The calm lagoon about is all agleam,A shield of silver, plaited with pure gold.Far by the windmill, the old ruin, whenThe sun is setting, decked in all his glory,The boys go running, looking for pumice stones;And lads and lasses, for sweet furtive glances;And old men, lingering for memories.Old age is calm, and youth considerate.And the lagoon about, a purple glow,A garden thickly planted with blue gentians.Far by the windmill, the old ruin, whenThe secret midnight glides by silently,Sea Nereids, brought on the wings of airFrom the sea caves of Fairies on their steedsOf mist with manes of radiating light,Sing songs, and bathe their diamond forms, and love,While round about the princess-like lagoonWears as her royal robe the star-spun sky.Far by the windmill, the old ruin, ereThe smile of dawn shine with its rosy tinge,The hosts of tyrant slayers mount from belowAnd kiss the earth war-nurtured and war-glad.They raise again the ruin to a castleWith rifles singing back to victories;And the lagoon is full of flashes swift,Like a dark eye kindled with fiery wrath.WHAT THE LAGOON SAYSI have the sweetness of the lake and haveThe bitterness of the great sea. But now,Alas! my sweetness is a little drop;My bitterness, a flood. For the cold winter,The great corsair, has come with the north wind,Death's king. My azure blood has slowly flowedOut of my veins and gone to bring new lifeTo the deep seas. A shroud weed-woven wraps me.My little islands as my tombstones stand,And yonder well-built weirs are like young treesThat droop above my grave bereft of water.But even so in the death's cold clasp, I hearWithin my breast a secret voiceless flutterLike the young fish's flurry when, transfixed,It is dragged by the spear out of the sea.For I still dream of the sweet breath of love,And wait for the hot summer's kiss and yours,O angels of good tidings and new life,Spring breezes, sources of my dreams and love!PINKSFair pinks, with your breath, I have drunk your soul!Brown is the fisherman, and brown the landWith the sea brine, the south wind, and the sun;And round the brown land's neck, like necklaceOf coral, grow the pinks. Pinks of the gardens,And pinks of the windows; pinks like crowns and stars;Gifts good for any hand, and ornamentsFor any breast. O flowers blossomingIn pleasant rows along the houses' stairs,You sprinkle each man's path with fragrances;And now and then, you bow, touched by the dressOf the young girl who, breeze-like, passes by.Pinks full and pinks faint-colored; flowers that causeNo languor as the roses nor refresh,Like jasmines, flesh and soul; but whose scent hasSomething of the sharp breath of the lagoon,Even when you are pale like fainting virgins,And even when a world-destroying fireEnflames your petals without burning you!Pinks, that display now your form's nakednessLike children's bodies freshly bathed, and nowThe varied ornaments of senseless dwarfs,And now the purple of great emperors!All the transporting music of the red,Like that of many tuneful instruments,Springs from your heart and knows no end, but playsBefore my eyes its lasting harmonies.Sweet pinks, with your breath, I have drunk your soul!RUINSI turned back to the golden haunts of childhood,And back on the white path of youth; I turnedTo see the wonder palace built for meOnce by the holy hands of sacred Loves.The path was hidden by the thorny briars;The golden haunts, burned by the midday sun;An earthquake brought the wonder palace low;And now amidst the ruins and ashes, IAm left alone and palsy-stricken; snakesAnd lizards, pains and hatreds dwell now hereIn constant loathful brotherhood with me.An earthquake brought the wonder palace low!PENELOPEWars distant, tempests wild, and foreign landsKeep thy life-mate for years and years away;Dangers and scornings threaten thee; and careWith guile and wrath gird thee, Penelope.About thee, enemies and revellers!But thou wilt hear, and look, and wait for noneBut him; and on thy loom thou weavest alwaysAnd then unweavest the thread of thy true love,Penelope.Than Europe's goods and Asia'sEven a greater treasure is thy kiss;Thy loom, much higher than a royal throne;Thy brow an altar, O Penelope!Mortals and gods know only one more pricelessThan thine own loom, thy forehead, or thy kiss:Thy mate, the king thou always longest for,Penelope. Yet even though strange landsKeep him away from thee, and distant wars,And monstrous Scyllas, and the guileful Sirens,Not even they can blot him from thy soul,Him, thy thought's whitest light, Penelope!A NEW ODE BY THE OLD ALCAEUSTo Lesbos' shores, where the year's seasons alwaysSprinkle the field with flowers, and where gladThe rosy-footed Graces always playWith the young maidens, once the stream of Hebrus,Hand-like, brought Orpheus' orphan lyre; and sinceThat time, our island is a sacred shrineOf Harmony, and its wind's breath, a song!The soul Aeolian took up the lyreBorn upon Thracian lands, as foster child;And on its golden strings the restless beatingsOf Sappho's and Erinna's flaming heartsWere echoed burningly.And I, who fightAlways against blind mobs and tyrants deaf,I, the pride of the chosen few, the stayOf the great best, returning from exile,A billow-tossed world-wanderer, did stirThe selfsame lyre with a new quill and breathedUpon its strings a new heroic breath.Upon the love-adorned and verdant island,Like a god's trident, now Alcaeus' quillWakens the storm of sounds, and angrilyHe strikes with words that are like poisoned arrowsDirect and merciless against his foe,Whether a Pittacus or Myrsilus.In vain did tender love reveal before meOn rose-beds Lycus, the young lad, with eyesAnd hair coal-black, with rosy garlands bound,And Sappho of the honeyed smile, the pure,A muse among the muses, and the motherOf a strange modesty. Love moved me not!I raised an altar to the war-god Ares;And on my walls, I hung war ornaments,Weapons exulting in the battle's roar.I sang of the sword bound with ivory,My brother's spoil from distant Babylon.I saw my hapless country's ship tossed hereAnd there, and beaten by the giant wavesOf anarchy; and with my golden Lyre,Whose voice is mightier than the wild furyOf a tempestuous sea, I called on War,The War who revels in men's blood, to comeAs a destroyer or deliverer.And when the war did come in savage din,Brought upon Lesbos by the might of Athens,With heart exultant, I saluted him:"Hail, war of glory!"Yet, alas and thriceAlas! Amidst the world of death and ruins,Though eager warrior and heavy armed,I felt the solid earth beneath me shake;My vengefulness, fade into fleeting mist;My breastplate, press on me like a nightmare;And my white-crested helmet, like a tombstone!Confusion was my harbor; and I feltIn me Life's longing win the victory.And while the nations twain, like maddened bullsGoad-driven, rushed upon each other's death,And stern Alecto spread about the flamesOf Tartarus, I saw before mine eyes—O sight enchanting!—Lesbos' luring shores!Never before were they so beautifulWith love and verdant! There I gazed on Lycus,The boy with eyes and hair coal-black that neverBefore had touched my heart so powerfully.And the Muse Sappho of the honeyed smileGlittered before me, pure and violet crowned;And her strange modesty bewitched my tongueWith power unwonted until then; and I,The strong, silently feasted on her beauty!And while about the maddened Ares raged,Reaper of men and vanquisher of rocks,With my soul's eyes, I followed on the trailOf the Lyre-God, who passed that way, returningFrom the Hyperboreans' land. He passedAloft, crowned with a golden diadem,Upon a chariot drawn by snow-white swans,Towards his Delphic palaces, flower-decked,With nightingales and April on his train.Oh, would that I might live to touch them! WouldThat I might hold their charms in my embrace,Those charms so sweet and guileful and divine!And at the thought—alas, and thrice alas!—I threw my trusted sword and shield away,And fled, a shameful coward and a traitor!
My knees, bent on thy marble pavement, bleed,O Temple built apart in wildernessFor an unseen divinity, a goddessWho from her being's deep abyss revealsOnly a statue wrought by human handAnd even covered with a veil opaque.Methinks I see among thy sculptured columns,Among thy secret treasures and thine altars,Ion, the Delphic priest, who lays asideThe snow-white raiment of the sacrificeAnd takes up the wayfarer's knotty staff.I am no ministrant, nor have I heldThe dreadful mystic key, nor have I touchedBoldly or timidly the sacred gateThat leads to Life's deep-hidden mysteries.One sinner more, O Temple, in the midstOf sinful multitudes, I come to worship.My knees, bent on thy marble pavement, bleed;I feel the chill of night or of the tombCreeping upon me slowly, stealthily.But lo, I struggle to shake off the evilThat creeps on me so cold; with longing heart,I drag my bleeding knees beyond thy walls,Out of thy columns—forests stifling me—Into the sunlight and the moon's soft glimmer.Away with prayer's burning frankincense!Away with the gold knife of the sacrifice!Away with choirs loud-voiced and clad in white,Singing their hymns about the flaming altars!Abandoning thee, O Temple, I returnTo the small hut of the first bloom of time.
My knees, bent on thy marble pavement, bleed,O Temple built apart in wildernessFor an unseen divinity, a goddessWho from her being's deep abyss revealsOnly a statue wrought by human handAnd even covered with a veil opaque.
Methinks I see among thy sculptured columns,Among thy secret treasures and thine altars,Ion, the Delphic priest, who lays asideThe snow-white raiment of the sacrificeAnd takes up the wayfarer's knotty staff.I am no ministrant, nor have I heldThe dreadful mystic key, nor have I touchedBoldly or timidly the sacred gateThat leads to Life's deep-hidden mysteries.One sinner more, O Temple, in the midstOf sinful multitudes, I come to worship.
My knees, bent on thy marble pavement, bleed;I feel the chill of night or of the tombCreeping upon me slowly, stealthily.But lo, I struggle to shake off the evilThat creeps on me so cold; with longing heart,I drag my bleeding knees beyond thy walls,Out of thy columns—forests stifling me—Into the sunlight and the moon's soft glimmer.
Away with prayer's burning frankincense!Away with the gold knife of the sacrifice!Away with choirs loud-voiced and clad in white,Singing their hymns about the flaming altars!Abandoning thee, O Temple, I returnTo the small hut of the first bloom of time.
O humble hut of the first bloom of time,Neither the noisy city's mingled Babel,Nor the most tranquil soul of the great plain,Nor the gold cloud of dust on the wide road,Nor the brook's course that sings like nightingales,Nothing of these is either shown to theeOr speaks before thy bare and flowerless window,O humble hut of the first bloom of time.Only the neighbor's step now echoes onFrom the rough pavement built in Turkish times;The black wall's shadow, on the narrow street;And on the lonely ruins lightning-struckEre they became the glory of a house,The nettles revel lustful and unreaped.Beneath the bare and flowerless window's sill,A nest of greenish black, like a small heart,Hangs tenantless and waits and waits and waitsIn vain for the return of the first swallowThat has gone forth, its first and last of dwellers.O thirsty eyes that linger magnet-boundOn the nest's orphanhood of greenish black!O ears filled with the terror of the tuneThat travels to the bare and flowerless windowHigh from thy roof moss-covered with neglect,O humble hut of the first bloom of time!It is the tune the lone-owl always playsBlowing upon the cursèd flute of nightIts lingering shrill notes of mournful measure,Herald of woe and prophet of all ill.
O humble hut of the first bloom of time,Neither the noisy city's mingled Babel,Nor the most tranquil soul of the great plain,Nor the gold cloud of dust on the wide road,Nor the brook's course that sings like nightingales,Nothing of these is either shown to theeOr speaks before thy bare and flowerless window,O humble hut of the first bloom of time.
Only the neighbor's step now echoes onFrom the rough pavement built in Turkish times;The black wall's shadow, on the narrow street;And on the lonely ruins lightning-struckEre they became the glory of a house,The nettles revel lustful and unreaped.Beneath the bare and flowerless window's sill,A nest of greenish black, like a small heart,Hangs tenantless and waits and waits and waitsIn vain for the return of the first swallowThat has gone forth, its first and last of dwellers.
O thirsty eyes that linger magnet-boundOn the nest's orphanhood of greenish black!O ears filled with the terror of the tuneThat travels to the bare and flowerless windowHigh from thy roof moss-covered with neglect,O humble hut of the first bloom of time!It is the tune the lone-owl always playsBlowing upon the cursèd flute of nightIts lingering shrill notes of mournful measure,Herald of woe and prophet of all ill.
The ring is lost! The wedding ring is gone!A folk song.
The ring is lost! The wedding ring is gone!
A folk song.
My mother planned a wedding feast for meAnd chose me for a wife a Nereid,A tender flower of beauty and of faith.My mother wished to wed me with thy charms,O Fairy Life, thou first of Nereids!And hastily she goes to seek advice,Begging for gold from every sorceressAnd powerful witch, and gold from forty bridesWhose wedding crowns are fresh upon their brows;And making with the gold a ring enchanted,She puts it on my finger and she bindsWith golden bond my youthful human fleshTo the strange Fairy—how strange a wedding ring!—I was the boy that always older grewWith the transporting passion of a pairBethrothed who, lured by longing, countenanceTheir wedding moment as an endless feastUpon a bridal bed of lily white.The boy I was that always older grewGold-bound with Life, the Fairy conqueress;The boy I was that always older grewWith love and thirst unquenchable for Life;The boy I was that always older grewDestined to tread upon a path untrodAmidst the light, illumined. I was heWhose brow like an Olympian victor's shoneAnd like the man's who tamed Bucephalus.I was the nimble dolphin with gold wings,Arion's watchful and quick deliverer.But then, one day,—I know not whence and how—Upon a shore of sunburned sands, the hourOf early evening saddened with dark clouds,I wrestled with a strange black boy new-come,Risen to life from the great sea's abyss;And in the savage spite of that long struggle,The ring fell from my finger and was gone!Did the great earth engulf it? Did the waveSwallow it? I know not. But this I know:For ever since, the binding spell is rent!And Fairy Life, the first of Nereids,My own bethrothed, that was my slave and queen,Vanished away like a fleet cloud of smoke!And ever since, from my first-blooming youthTo the first flakes of silver that now fallOn the black forest of my hair, since then,Some power dumb and dreadful holds me boundWith a mere shadow fleeting and unknownThat seems not to exist, yet ever longsAnd vainly strives to enter into being.And now I am Life's widowed mate and hapless,Life's great and careless patient! Woe is me!And I am like the fair Alcithoe,Daughter of the ancient king, who changed her formAnd as a sign of the gods' vengeful wrathIs now instead of princess a night-bat!
My mother planned a wedding feast for meAnd chose me for a wife a Nereid,A tender flower of beauty and of faith.My mother wished to wed me with thy charms,O Fairy Life, thou first of Nereids!
And hastily she goes to seek advice,Begging for gold from every sorceressAnd powerful witch, and gold from forty bridesWhose wedding crowns are fresh upon their brows;And making with the gold a ring enchanted,She puts it on my finger and she bindsWith golden bond my youthful human fleshTo the strange Fairy—how strange a wedding ring!—
I was the boy that always older grewWith the transporting passion of a pairBethrothed who, lured by longing, countenanceTheir wedding moment as an endless feastUpon a bridal bed of lily white.
The boy I was that always older grewGold-bound with Life, the Fairy conqueress;The boy I was that always older grewWith love and thirst unquenchable for Life;The boy I was that always older grewDestined to tread upon a path untrodAmidst the light, illumined. I was heWhose brow like an Olympian victor's shoneAnd like the man's who tamed Bucephalus.I was the nimble dolphin with gold wings,Arion's watchful and quick deliverer.
But then, one day,—I know not whence and how—Upon a shore of sunburned sands, the hourOf early evening saddened with dark clouds,I wrestled with a strange black boy new-come,Risen to life from the great sea's abyss;And in the savage spite of that long struggle,The ring fell from my finger and was gone!
Did the great earth engulf it? Did the waveSwallow it? I know not. But this I know:For ever since, the binding spell is rent!And Fairy Life, the first of Nereids,My own bethrothed, that was my slave and queen,Vanished away like a fleet cloud of smoke!
And ever since, from my first-blooming youthTo the first flakes of silver that now fallOn the black forest of my hair, since then,Some power dumb and dreadful holds me boundWith a mere shadow fleeting and unknownThat seems not to exist, yet ever longsAnd vainly strives to enter into being.
And now I am Life's widowed mate and hapless,Life's great and careless patient! Woe is me!And I am like the fair Alcithoe,Daughter of the ancient king, who changed her formAnd as a sign of the gods' vengeful wrathIs now instead of princess a night-bat!
See far away, what a glad festivalThe golden grasses on the meadow weave!A festival thrice-fragrant with blond flowers!With the sweet sunrise sweetly wakening,I also wish to join the festivalAnd, like a treasure reaper, to embraceMasses of flowers blond and fresh with dew,And then to squander all my flower treasureAt my love's feet, for my heart's ruling queen.But the gold-spangled meadow spreads too deep;And, just as mourning for some dead deprivesA life rejoicing with its twenty yearsOf its light raiments of a lily-white,So is my swift and merry way cut shortBy a bad way that lies between, withoutAn end, beset with brambles and with marshes!The thorny plants tear like an enemy's claws;And like bird-lime the bad plain's mire ensnaresMy feet among the brambles and the marshes,Where, in the parching sun's enflaming shafts,The brine, like silver lightning, strikes my eyes!Where is the coolness of a breath? Where isThe covering shadow of a leafy tree?I faint! My frame is bent! My way is lost!I droop exhausted on the briny earth,And in my lethargy I feel the thornsUpon my brow; the bitter brine uponMy lips; the sultriness of the south windUpon my hands; the kisses of the marshUpon my feet; the rushes' fondling onMy breast; and the hard fate and impotenceOf this bare world within me.Where art thou,My love?See far, in depths of purple sunsetsGorgeously painted, the glad festivalThat golden grasses on the meadow weave,The festival thrice-fragrant with blond flowers,Sees me, and calls me still, and waits for me!
See far away, what a glad festivalThe golden grasses on the meadow weave!A festival thrice-fragrant with blond flowers!With the sweet sunrise sweetly wakening,I also wish to join the festivalAnd, like a treasure reaper, to embraceMasses of flowers blond and fresh with dew,And then to squander all my flower treasureAt my love's feet, for my heart's ruling queen.
But the gold-spangled meadow spreads too deep;And, just as mourning for some dead deprivesA life rejoicing with its twenty yearsOf its light raiments of a lily-white,So is my swift and merry way cut shortBy a bad way that lies between, withoutAn end, beset with brambles and with marshes!
The thorny plants tear like an enemy's claws;And like bird-lime the bad plain's mire ensnaresMy feet among the brambles and the marshes,Where, in the parching sun's enflaming shafts,The brine, like silver lightning, strikes my eyes!
Where is the coolness of a breath? Where isThe covering shadow of a leafy tree?I faint! My frame is bent! My way is lost!I droop exhausted on the briny earth,And in my lethargy I feel the thornsUpon my brow; the bitter brine uponMy lips; the sultriness of the south windUpon my hands; the kisses of the marshUpon my feet; the rushes' fondling onMy breast; and the hard fate and impotenceOf this bare world within me.Where art thou,My love?See far, in depths of purple sunsetsGorgeously painted, the glad festivalThat golden grasses on the meadow weave,The festival thrice-fragrant with blond flowers,Sees me, and calls me still, and waits for me!
When in the evening on my hut the moonSpreads her soft silver nets that dreams have wrought,The hut is caught, and, by the net bewitched,It changes and becomes a lofty tower.And then, unseen by the Day's Sun, the fatherOf Health, the rosy-cheeked, who always seesAll things with careless and short-sighted eyes,A monstrous vision lo, the Fairy Illness,Stripped in the silver glimmer of the moon,Herself of moonlight born, looms into sightSlowly in the enchanted tower's midst!In whitening shimmers, she, like sea at night,Advances with the step of sleeping men;Death's pallor is her own, though not Death's chill;Her ivory skeleton is mantled byA fleshy cover made of fiery air;The uncouth flowers on her dragging veilSeem, like the poppies, crimson red and black;And still more uncouth look the countless thingsWrought on its folds: dragons and ogresses,Fevers and lethargies and pains of heart,Nightmares and storms and earthquakes, breaking nerves.Delirium flies from her burning lips,A language made of odd, discordant rhythms.To nothing, either hers or strange, her eyesAre like; deep, as abyss untrod, they yawn,And seem as if they gaze immovableOn empty space. Yet shouldst thou stoop with thirstTo mirror on her staring eyes thine own,Then wouldst thou see worlds buried in their caves,Like ruined cities of whole centuries,Sunk in the fairy-spangled oceans' depths!
When in the evening on my hut the moonSpreads her soft silver nets that dreams have wrought,The hut is caught, and, by the net bewitched,It changes and becomes a lofty tower.
And then, unseen by the Day's Sun, the fatherOf Health, the rosy-cheeked, who always seesAll things with careless and short-sighted eyes,A monstrous vision lo, the Fairy Illness,Stripped in the silver glimmer of the moon,Herself of moonlight born, looms into sightSlowly in the enchanted tower's midst!
In whitening shimmers, she, like sea at night,Advances with the step of sleeping men;Death's pallor is her own, though not Death's chill;Her ivory skeleton is mantled byA fleshy cover made of fiery air;The uncouth flowers on her dragging veilSeem, like the poppies, crimson red and black;And still more uncouth look the countless thingsWrought on its folds: dragons and ogresses,Fevers and lethargies and pains of heart,Nightmares and storms and earthquakes, breaking nerves.
Delirium flies from her burning lips,A language made of odd, discordant rhythms.To nothing, either hers or strange, her eyesAre like; deep, as abyss untrod, they yawn,And seem as if they gaze immovableOn empty space. Yet shouldst thou stoop with thirstTo mirror on her staring eyes thine own,Then wouldst thou see worlds buried in their caves,Like ruined cities of whole centuries,Sunk in the fairy-spangled oceans' depths!
Out in the open light, the Sun is shining,Father of Health, Health rosy cheeked, whose breastsAre full, and yield their milk abundantly;She only sees those things of flesh aboutWhich her divine sun-father shows to her;And her unconquerable iron handsAre matched with careless and short-sighted eyes.Out in the open light, even the moon,The Sibyl, clothed in white, appears, with glanceLyncean, piercing deep and bringing forthFrom the world's ends great hosts of monstrous things,The monsters born of shadows and of dreams.
Out in the open light, the Sun is shining,Father of Health, Health rosy cheeked, whose breastsAre full, and yield their milk abundantly;She only sees those things of flesh aboutWhich her divine sun-father shows to her;And her unconquerable iron handsAre matched with careless and short-sighted eyes.
Out in the open light, even the moon,The Sibyl, clothed in white, appears, with glanceLyncean, piercing deep and bringing forthFrom the world's ends great hosts of monstrous things,The monsters born of shadows and of dreams.
When in my breast I felt my first-born love,Thrice-noble maiden of compliant heart,I was possessed with the strange fear that filledThe youthful princess of the ancient taleAt sight of the black man's enchanted rod.O mate, who madest first my early yearsBlossom, too soon thou fleddest far from meNor sawest me again! Wild Fairies tookMy speech, and evil demons seized my all;Yet soul and body, my whole being shiversFrom that awakening thou sangest me,Eternal Woman! Thou wert what far MeccaIs for the faithful's prayer to his prophet.O far off Mecca! O eternal FearOf white Desire upon the shining wingsOf a black sinner! O king Love, chased likeOrestes, by a Fury serpent-haired!
When in my breast I felt my first-born love,Thrice-noble maiden of compliant heart,I was possessed with the strange fear that filledThe youthful princess of the ancient taleAt sight of the black man's enchanted rod.
O mate, who madest first my early yearsBlossom, too soon thou fleddest far from meNor sawest me again! Wild Fairies tookMy speech, and evil demons seized my all;Yet soul and body, my whole being shiversFrom that awakening thou sangest me,Eternal Woman! Thou wert what far MeccaIs for the faithful's prayer to his prophet.O far off Mecca! O eternal FearOf white Desire upon the shining wingsOf a black sinner! O king Love, chased likeOrestes, by a Fury serpent-haired!
A madman chased my early childhood yearsThrice-sweet and blossoming, and seizing them—Alas!—he crushed them in his reckless furyLike twigs of purple-colored pomegranate!He scattered them in pieces everywhere:Into the joyless house and in the yard,On narrow streets, and paths, and pathless haunts,Where persecution raves, and menace dumbChills all away from the pure light and air.The madman's cursed hands hold everythingWith snares and claws and stones and knives; they fallOn loneliness and on embracings, nightOr day, on sleep or wake, and everywhere!And yonder on the streets and in the houses,Children like me in age, whose years were filledWith bloom and sweetness, freely ran and laughedAnd played. Behind me, close, the madman's snaresI heard; and then, the deadened sound of feet!I breathed his flaming breath! And if his stepsWere slow, still wilder did his laughter hunt me!Oh, for my life's cold quiverings of pain!Oh, for the goading—not like the divineGoading that drove the maid of Inachus,Io, to wander on and on in frenzy;—But like the sudden goading that smites downThe little bird when first it tries its wings!And lo, blood of my blood the madman was!A past, ancestral, long forgotten sin,That, bursting forth upon me vampire-like,Snatched from my head the dewy crown of joy!
A madman chased my early childhood yearsThrice-sweet and blossoming, and seizing them—Alas!—he crushed them in his reckless furyLike twigs of purple-colored pomegranate!
He scattered them in pieces everywhere:Into the joyless house and in the yard,On narrow streets, and paths, and pathless haunts,Where persecution raves, and menace dumbChills all away from the pure light and air.The madman's cursed hands hold everythingWith snares and claws and stones and knives; they fallOn loneliness and on embracings, nightOr day, on sleep or wake, and everywhere!
And yonder on the streets and in the houses,Children like me in age, whose years were filledWith bloom and sweetness, freely ran and laughedAnd played. Behind me, close, the madman's snaresI heard; and then, the deadened sound of feet!I breathed his flaming breath! And if his stepsWere slow, still wilder did his laughter hunt me!
Oh, for my life's cold quiverings of pain!Oh, for the goading—not like the divineGoading that drove the maid of Inachus,Io, to wander on and on in frenzy;—But like the sudden goading that smites downThe little bird when first it tries its wings!And lo, blood of my blood the madman was!A past, ancestral, long forgotten sin,That, bursting forth upon me vampire-like,Snatched from my head the dewy crown of joy!
Our home has not the ugly clamoringNor the dumb stillness of the other homesAbout and opposite. For in our homeRare birds sing forth uncommon melodies;And in our home-yard a young offshoot grows,Sprung from Dodona's tree oracular!And in the garden of our home, full thick,The ironworts and snakeroots blossom on;And in our home the magic mirror shinesReflecting always in its gleaming glassThe visage of the world thrice-wonderful!The silence of our home is full of moans,Moans vague and muffled from a distant worldOf bygone ages and of times unborn;And in our home souls come to life and die.Blossom from blossom blossoms forth and fades!Old men have the white, rich, Levitic beard,The foreheads wide of solemn contemplation,The wrath of prophets, and the fleeting calmAnd chilling threatfulness of the gray shadows.Glowing with love-heat like resistless Satyrs,The young men in the mind's most shady gladesHunt ardently the bride that is pure thought.The children drop their playthings carelessly,And, standing in a corner motionless,Open their eyes in thought like men full-grown.And all, ancestors and descendants, youngOr old, have ways that challenge ridiculeAnd have the word that bursting forth makes slaves!But still more beautiful and pure than these,An harmony fit for the chosen fewFills with its ringing sounds our dwelling place,A lightning sent from Sinai and a gleamFrom great Olympus, like the mingling soundsOf David's harp and Pindar's lyre conversingIn the star-spangled darkness of the night.
Our home has not the ugly clamoringNor the dumb stillness of the other homesAbout and opposite. For in our homeRare birds sing forth uncommon melodies;And in our home-yard a young offshoot grows,Sprung from Dodona's tree oracular!And in the garden of our home, full thick,The ironworts and snakeroots blossom on;And in our home the magic mirror shinesReflecting always in its gleaming glassThe visage of the world thrice-wonderful!
The silence of our home is full of moans,Moans vague and muffled from a distant worldOf bygone ages and of times unborn;And in our home souls come to life and die.Blossom from blossom blossoms forth and fades!Old men have the white, rich, Levitic beard,The foreheads wide of solemn contemplation,The wrath of prophets, and the fleeting calmAnd chilling threatfulness of the gray shadows.
Glowing with love-heat like resistless Satyrs,The young men in the mind's most shady gladesHunt ardently the bride that is pure thought.The children drop their playthings carelessly,And, standing in a corner motionless,Open their eyes in thought like men full-grown.And all, ancestors and descendants, youngOr old, have ways that challenge ridiculeAnd have the word that bursting forth makes slaves!
But still more beautiful and pure than these,An harmony fit for the chosen fewFills with its ringing sounds our dwelling place,A lightning sent from Sinai and a gleamFrom great Olympus, like the mingling soundsOf David's harp and Pindar's lyre conversingIn the star-spangled darkness of the night.
Within this place, I breathe a dead man's soul;And the dead man, a blond and beardless youth!A youthful light and blond stirs in our home;And moments fly, and days and years and ages.The dead man's soul is in this lonely houseLike bitter quiet about a calm-bound shipThat longs for the sea-paths, and dreams of storms.All faces, smoked with the faint smoke that glidesFrom candles lighting death! All eyes, still fixedOn a sad coffin! And the mute lips, tingedWith the last kiss's bitterness, still tremble.As for a prayer, hands are raised, and feetMove quietly as behind a funeral.The snow-white nakedness of the cold wallsAnd black luxuriance of the mourning robesAre like discordant music of two tunes.The children's step is light in thoughtful careLest they disturb the slumber of the dead.The old men, bent as at a pit's dark end,Lean on the virgins' shoulders, virgins fairLike fates benevolent and comforting.The young men seek on endless paths to findIn Wisdom's hands the weed Oblivion.And on the window shutters that are closed,The clay pots with their flowers seem to beA dead man's wreath; and the lone ray that glidesThrough the small fissure is transformed withinInto a taper's light on All Souls' Day.The candle burning at the sacred imageIs flickering and snaps as if it wrestledWith death. At moments, led astray, comes hereA butterfly of varied wings and bringsIn airy flesh theAveof the soulThat did enchant the house, the house that seemsGlad for its dead yet loves and longs for him,The dead blond youth, and claims him as its own!And luring him, that it might hold for everIts chosen love relentlessly, it hasNow changed its form and turned from house to grave!
Within this place, I breathe a dead man's soul;And the dead man, a blond and beardless youth!A youthful light and blond stirs in our home;And moments fly, and days and years and ages.The dead man's soul is in this lonely houseLike bitter quiet about a calm-bound shipThat longs for the sea-paths, and dreams of storms.
All faces, smoked with the faint smoke that glidesFrom candles lighting death! All eyes, still fixedOn a sad coffin! And the mute lips, tingedWith the last kiss's bitterness, still tremble.As for a prayer, hands are raised, and feetMove quietly as behind a funeral.The snow-white nakedness of the cold wallsAnd black luxuriance of the mourning robesAre like discordant music of two tunes.
The children's step is light in thoughtful careLest they disturb the slumber of the dead.The old men, bent as at a pit's dark end,Lean on the virgins' shoulders, virgins fairLike fates benevolent and comforting.The young men seek on endless paths to findIn Wisdom's hands the weed Oblivion.And on the window shutters that are closed,The clay pots with their flowers seem to beA dead man's wreath; and the lone ray that glidesThrough the small fissure is transformed withinInto a taper's light on All Souls' Day.
The candle burning at the sacred imageIs flickering and snaps as if it wrestledWith death. At moments, led astray, comes hereA butterfly of varied wings and bringsIn airy flesh theAveof the soulThat did enchant the house, the house that seemsGlad for its dead yet loves and longs for him,The dead blond youth, and claims him as its own!And luring him, that it might hold for everIts chosen love relentlessly, it hasNow changed its form and turned from house to grave!
O boy of the glad school of seven years,With thy tall form, a shadow of all thou wert.Thy voice had sweetness never heard before,A font of holy water of which allPartook with fear and longing! We forgotWith thee the book and laughed thy merry laughter;Thou didst tear lifeless readings from our mindsTogether with the pedant's torpid mullen,And didst sow deep into our hearts the seedOf the gold tree that dazzles with its light,And charms, and is a tale most wonderful!The princesses, with valiant heroes mated,Shone in the hauntless palace of our thought,First-born; and on imagination's meadow,Another April bloomed. We saw Saint George,The rider, slay the dragon and redeemThe maiden. They were not letters that thy hand'sWhite clay did write, but like the mystic sealOf Solomon, it scratched a magic knot;And thy forefinger moved within thy handLike fair Dionysus' thyrsus blossoming!Amidst the restless swarm of humming children,We had the clamor; and thou hadst the honey,Turning attention to a prayer, thou,O comrade of the early years that bloomed,O chosen being, unforgettable,Worthy of everlasting memory!Wherever thou still art or wanderest;Whomever thou hast followed of the twoWomen, who, in the past, did stir Alcmena'sGreat son, after thou camest upon themOn some crosspath; whether thou blossomestLike the pure lily, or tower-like thou risest;Whether thou art neglected like a crumb,Shinest as thy country's pride, or art alone,A stranger among strangers wandering;Whether life's riddle or the grave's holds thee;Whatever and wherever thou now art,O brother mine and mate, from my lips hereAccept my distant kiss with godlike grace!
O boy of the glad school of seven years,With thy tall form, a shadow of all thou wert.Thy voice had sweetness never heard before,A font of holy water of which allPartook with fear and longing! We forgotWith thee the book and laughed thy merry laughter;Thou didst tear lifeless readings from our mindsTogether with the pedant's torpid mullen,And didst sow deep into our hearts the seedOf the gold tree that dazzles with its light,And charms, and is a tale most wonderful!
The princesses, with valiant heroes mated,Shone in the hauntless palace of our thought,First-born; and on imagination's meadow,Another April bloomed. We saw Saint George,The rider, slay the dragon and redeemThe maiden. They were not letters that thy hand'sWhite clay did write, but like the mystic sealOf Solomon, it scratched a magic knot;And thy forefinger moved within thy handLike fair Dionysus' thyrsus blossoming!
Amidst the restless swarm of humming children,We had the clamor; and thou hadst the honey,Turning attention to a prayer, thou,O comrade of the early years that bloomed,O chosen being, unforgettable,Worthy of everlasting memory!Wherever thou still art or wanderest;Whomever thou hast followed of the twoWomen, who, in the past, did stir Alcmena'sGreat son, after thou camest upon themOn some crosspath; whether thou blossomestLike the pure lily, or tower-like thou risest;Whether thou art neglected like a crumb,Shinest as thy country's pride, or art alone,A stranger among strangers wandering;Whether life's riddle or the grave's holds thee;Whatever and wherever thou now art,O brother mine and mate, from my lips hereAccept my distant kiss with godlike grace!
Homer divine! Joy of all time and glory!When in the coldness of a frigid school,Upon the barrenness of a hard bench,My teacher's graceless hands placed thee before me,O peerless book, what I had thought would beA lesson, proved a mighty miracle!The heavens opened wide and clear in me;The sea, a sapphire sown with emerald;The bench became a throne palatial;The school, a world; the teacher, a great bard!It was not reading nor the fruit of thought:A vision it was that shone most wonderful,A melody my ears had never heard.In the great cavern that a forest deepOf poplars and of cypresses encircles,In the great fragrant cavern that the glowOf burning cedar beats with pleasant warmth,Calypso of the shining hair spins notHer web with golden shuttle; nor sings sheWith limpid voice. But lifting up her hands,She pours her curses from her flaming heartAgainst the jealous gods:"O mortal menAdored by the immortal goddesses,Who on Olympus shared with you their love'sAmbrosia, and mortals crushed to dustBy jealous gods!..."The goddess's awful curseMakes the fresh celeries and violets fade,And, like the hail sent by the heaven's wrath,It burns the clusters on the fruitful vines!The hero far renowned of IthacaAlone heeds not the flaming curse, that he,A wanderer, in the Nymph's heart did lightUnwittingly. But sea-wrecked and sea-beaten,He sits without, immovable, with eyesFixed far away; and thus rememberingHis native island's shores, for ever weepsUpon the coast and near the sea thrice-deep.The white sea-gull that often in its flightPlunges its wings into the brine to catchThe fish, and the lone falcon perched afarIn the deep forest, lonely and remote,Listen and answer to the hero's wail.Oh, for my phantasy's revealed first vision!Oh, for the baring of the beautifulBefore me! Lo, the dusty, dark-brown landChanges into a Nymph's isle lily-white!The humble fisher lass upon the rock,Into Calypso of the shining hair, love-born!My heart, a traveller into a thousandLands, thirsting for one country, which is love!And lo, my soul is, ever since, a lyreOf double strings that echoes with its soundThe harmony thrice ancient, curse or wail!Joy of all time and glory, godlike Homer!
Homer divine! Joy of all time and glory!When in the coldness of a frigid school,Upon the barrenness of a hard bench,My teacher's graceless hands placed thee before me,O peerless book, what I had thought would beA lesson, proved a mighty miracle!
The heavens opened wide and clear in me;The sea, a sapphire sown with emerald;The bench became a throne palatial;The school, a world; the teacher, a great bard!
It was not reading nor the fruit of thought:A vision it was that shone most wonderful,A melody my ears had never heard.
In the great cavern that a forest deepOf poplars and of cypresses encircles,In the great fragrant cavern that the glowOf burning cedar beats with pleasant warmth,Calypso of the shining hair spins notHer web with golden shuttle; nor sings sheWith limpid voice. But lifting up her hands,She pours her curses from her flaming heartAgainst the jealous gods:"O mortal menAdored by the immortal goddesses,Who on Olympus shared with you their love'sAmbrosia, and mortals crushed to dustBy jealous gods!..."The goddess's awful curseMakes the fresh celeries and violets fade,And, like the hail sent by the heaven's wrath,It burns the clusters on the fruitful vines!
The hero far renowned of IthacaAlone heeds not the flaming curse, that he,A wanderer, in the Nymph's heart did lightUnwittingly. But sea-wrecked and sea-beaten,He sits without, immovable, with eyesFixed far away; and thus rememberingHis native island's shores, for ever weepsUpon the coast and near the sea thrice-deep.The white sea-gull that often in its flightPlunges its wings into the brine to catchThe fish, and the lone falcon perched afarIn the deep forest, lonely and remote,Listen and answer to the hero's wail.
Oh, for my phantasy's revealed first vision!Oh, for the baring of the beautifulBefore me! Lo, the dusty, dark-brown landChanges into a Nymph's isle lily-white!The humble fisher lass upon the rock,Into Calypso of the shining hair, love-born!My heart, a traveller into a thousandLands, thirsting for one country, which is love!
And lo, my soul is, ever since, a lyreOf double strings that echoes with its soundThe harmony thrice ancient, curse or wail!Joy of all time and glory, godlike Homer!
Now when the tide has covered all the land,Making the pier a sea, the street a strand,And the boat casts anchor at my threshold;Now when I see, wherever I may glance,The water's victory, the billow's glory,And see the rising tide a ruling empress;Now when a playful and good-minded floodCloses about the houses, plants, and menFondly, in a soft-flowing, sweet embrace;Now when the air, the planter of the treeOf Health, raised by the great sea's breath, digs deepInto the open breasts of living things;Now, I remember her, the little lassWho had the sea's pure dew, and, like a waveResistless, surpassed the tide in vehemence.Now I recall the little nimble lass,Life's victory, blossoming youth's proud glory,And joy's own throne. Now I remember her.Her face was like a cloudless early dawn;Her hair like moonlight shimmering uponThe restless wave; her passing, like the flashOf a swift fish that in the night swims byUpon its silver path; her eyes were tingedWith the deep color of the sea beneathBlack clouds; her voice, the sound of a calm nightUpon the beach; her chiseled dimples twinUpon her cheeks were overfilled with smilesThat Loves might drink from them to slake their thirst.Boy-like, she stepped on nimble foot and free,Boldly and daringly with fearless look,A child's soul dwelling in a woman's flesh.And when the high tide covered all the land,Making the pier a sea, the street a strand,And when the boat cast anchor at my threshold,Then from her home the little girl came forthHalf bare, half clad, robed in the robe of lightIn a swift dancing flood that revelled fullOf water-lust and crowns of seething foam.She gave her orders to the sea; she ruledThe tide and forward drove the foaming waves,Just as a shepherd lass, her white-clad sheep.Her native country, first and last, the sea!And whenever she passed, a Venus newSeemed rising from the shining water's depths.The fisherman, a primitive world's breed,The sum of Christian and of Satyr blood,Returning from his fruitful fishing path,Looked upon her as on an evil tempterAnd on a sacred image; and his oarsHung on his hands inert as palsy stricken,And the swift-winging bark stood like a rock;And, marble-like, the fisherman withinGazed with religious trembling and desire,Exclaiming as in trance: "O holy Virgin!"
Now when the tide has covered all the land,Making the pier a sea, the street a strand,And the boat casts anchor at my threshold;Now when I see, wherever I may glance,The water's victory, the billow's glory,And see the rising tide a ruling empress;Now when a playful and good-minded floodCloses about the houses, plants, and menFondly, in a soft-flowing, sweet embrace;Now when the air, the planter of the treeOf Health, raised by the great sea's breath, digs deepInto the open breasts of living things;
Now, I remember her, the little lassWho had the sea's pure dew, and, like a waveResistless, surpassed the tide in vehemence.Now I recall the little nimble lass,Life's victory, blossoming youth's proud glory,And joy's own throne. Now I remember her.
Her face was like a cloudless early dawn;Her hair like moonlight shimmering uponThe restless wave; her passing, like the flashOf a swift fish that in the night swims byUpon its silver path; her eyes were tingedWith the deep color of the sea beneathBlack clouds; her voice, the sound of a calm nightUpon the beach; her chiseled dimples twinUpon her cheeks were overfilled with smilesThat Loves might drink from them to slake their thirst.
Boy-like, she stepped on nimble foot and free,Boldly and daringly with fearless look,A child's soul dwelling in a woman's flesh.
And when the high tide covered all the land,Making the pier a sea, the street a strand,And when the boat cast anchor at my threshold,Then from her home the little girl came forthHalf bare, half clad, robed in the robe of lightIn a swift dancing flood that revelled fullOf water-lust and crowns of seething foam.
She gave her orders to the sea; she ruledThe tide and forward drove the foaming waves,Just as a shepherd lass, her white-clad sheep.Her native country, first and last, the sea!And whenever she passed, a Venus newSeemed rising from the shining water's depths.
The fisherman, a primitive world's breed,The sum of Christian and of Satyr blood,Returning from his fruitful fishing path,Looked upon her as on an evil tempterAnd on a sacred image; and his oarsHung on his hands inert as palsy stricken,And the swift-winging bark stood like a rock;And, marble-like, the fisherman withinGazed with religious trembling and desire,Exclaiming as in trance: "O holy Virgin!"
About the windmill, the old ruin, whenThe smile of dawn shines in its rosy tinge,The fisherboys now stir the silent airWith sudden ringing shouts and joyful plays;And the light barks that, fastened, wait their coming,Flutter impatiently like flapping wingsOf birds whose feet are bound. And all about,The lake-like sea revels in shimmers whiteLike a wide-open pearl shell on the beach.About the windmill, the old ruin, whenThe noon's beams burn like red-hot iron bars,A laden sleep draws with its heavy breathAll weary skippers and all mariners:The harpoons creak not in the hand's hard clasp;The fish alone stir in the realm of dew;The calm lagoon about is all agleam,A shield of silver, plaited with pure gold.Far by the windmill, the old ruin, whenThe sun is setting, decked in all his glory,The boys go running, looking for pumice stones;And lads and lasses, for sweet furtive glances;And old men, lingering for memories.Old age is calm, and youth considerate.And the lagoon about, a purple glow,A garden thickly planted with blue gentians.Far by the windmill, the old ruin, whenThe secret midnight glides by silently,Sea Nereids, brought on the wings of airFrom the sea caves of Fairies on their steedsOf mist with manes of radiating light,Sing songs, and bathe their diamond forms, and love,While round about the princess-like lagoonWears as her royal robe the star-spun sky.Far by the windmill, the old ruin, ereThe smile of dawn shine with its rosy tinge,The hosts of tyrant slayers mount from belowAnd kiss the earth war-nurtured and war-glad.They raise again the ruin to a castleWith rifles singing back to victories;And the lagoon is full of flashes swift,Like a dark eye kindled with fiery wrath.
About the windmill, the old ruin, whenThe smile of dawn shines in its rosy tinge,The fisherboys now stir the silent airWith sudden ringing shouts and joyful plays;And the light barks that, fastened, wait their coming,Flutter impatiently like flapping wingsOf birds whose feet are bound. And all about,The lake-like sea revels in shimmers whiteLike a wide-open pearl shell on the beach.
About the windmill, the old ruin, whenThe noon's beams burn like red-hot iron bars,A laden sleep draws with its heavy breathAll weary skippers and all mariners:The harpoons creak not in the hand's hard clasp;The fish alone stir in the realm of dew;The calm lagoon about is all agleam,A shield of silver, plaited with pure gold.
Far by the windmill, the old ruin, whenThe sun is setting, decked in all his glory,The boys go running, looking for pumice stones;And lads and lasses, for sweet furtive glances;And old men, lingering for memories.Old age is calm, and youth considerate.And the lagoon about, a purple glow,A garden thickly planted with blue gentians.
Far by the windmill, the old ruin, whenThe secret midnight glides by silently,Sea Nereids, brought on the wings of airFrom the sea caves of Fairies on their steedsOf mist with manes of radiating light,Sing songs, and bathe their diamond forms, and love,While round about the princess-like lagoonWears as her royal robe the star-spun sky.
Far by the windmill, the old ruin, ereThe smile of dawn shine with its rosy tinge,The hosts of tyrant slayers mount from belowAnd kiss the earth war-nurtured and war-glad.They raise again the ruin to a castleWith rifles singing back to victories;And the lagoon is full of flashes swift,Like a dark eye kindled with fiery wrath.
I have the sweetness of the lake and haveThe bitterness of the great sea. But now,Alas! my sweetness is a little drop;My bitterness, a flood. For the cold winter,The great corsair, has come with the north wind,Death's king. My azure blood has slowly flowedOut of my veins and gone to bring new lifeTo the deep seas. A shroud weed-woven wraps me.My little islands as my tombstones stand,And yonder well-built weirs are like young treesThat droop above my grave bereft of water.But even so in the death's cold clasp, I hearWithin my breast a secret voiceless flutterLike the young fish's flurry when, transfixed,It is dragged by the spear out of the sea.For I still dream of the sweet breath of love,And wait for the hot summer's kiss and yours,O angels of good tidings and new life,Spring breezes, sources of my dreams and love!
I have the sweetness of the lake and haveThe bitterness of the great sea. But now,Alas! my sweetness is a little drop;My bitterness, a flood. For the cold winter,The great corsair, has come with the north wind,Death's king. My azure blood has slowly flowedOut of my veins and gone to bring new lifeTo the deep seas. A shroud weed-woven wraps me.
My little islands as my tombstones stand,And yonder well-built weirs are like young treesThat droop above my grave bereft of water.
But even so in the death's cold clasp, I hearWithin my breast a secret voiceless flutterLike the young fish's flurry when, transfixed,It is dragged by the spear out of the sea.For I still dream of the sweet breath of love,And wait for the hot summer's kiss and yours,O angels of good tidings and new life,Spring breezes, sources of my dreams and love!
Fair pinks, with your breath, I have drunk your soul!Brown is the fisherman, and brown the landWith the sea brine, the south wind, and the sun;And round the brown land's neck, like necklaceOf coral, grow the pinks. Pinks of the gardens,And pinks of the windows; pinks like crowns and stars;Gifts good for any hand, and ornamentsFor any breast. O flowers blossomingIn pleasant rows along the houses' stairs,You sprinkle each man's path with fragrances;And now and then, you bow, touched by the dressOf the young girl who, breeze-like, passes by.Pinks full and pinks faint-colored; flowers that causeNo languor as the roses nor refresh,Like jasmines, flesh and soul; but whose scent hasSomething of the sharp breath of the lagoon,Even when you are pale like fainting virgins,And even when a world-destroying fireEnflames your petals without burning you!Pinks, that display now your form's nakednessLike children's bodies freshly bathed, and nowThe varied ornaments of senseless dwarfs,And now the purple of great emperors!All the transporting music of the red,Like that of many tuneful instruments,Springs from your heart and knows no end, but playsBefore my eyes its lasting harmonies.Sweet pinks, with your breath, I have drunk your soul!
Fair pinks, with your breath, I have drunk your soul!Brown is the fisherman, and brown the landWith the sea brine, the south wind, and the sun;And round the brown land's neck, like necklaceOf coral, grow the pinks. Pinks of the gardens,And pinks of the windows; pinks like crowns and stars;Gifts good for any hand, and ornamentsFor any breast. O flowers blossomingIn pleasant rows along the houses' stairs,You sprinkle each man's path with fragrances;And now and then, you bow, touched by the dressOf the young girl who, breeze-like, passes by.
Pinks full and pinks faint-colored; flowers that causeNo languor as the roses nor refresh,Like jasmines, flesh and soul; but whose scent hasSomething of the sharp breath of the lagoon,Even when you are pale like fainting virgins,And even when a world-destroying fireEnflames your petals without burning you!
Pinks, that display now your form's nakednessLike children's bodies freshly bathed, and nowThe varied ornaments of senseless dwarfs,And now the purple of great emperors!All the transporting music of the red,Like that of many tuneful instruments,Springs from your heart and knows no end, but playsBefore my eyes its lasting harmonies.Sweet pinks, with your breath, I have drunk your soul!
I turned back to the golden haunts of childhood,And back on the white path of youth; I turnedTo see the wonder palace built for meOnce by the holy hands of sacred Loves.The path was hidden by the thorny briars;The golden haunts, burned by the midday sun;An earthquake brought the wonder palace low;And now amidst the ruins and ashes, IAm left alone and palsy-stricken; snakesAnd lizards, pains and hatreds dwell now hereIn constant loathful brotherhood with me.An earthquake brought the wonder palace low!
I turned back to the golden haunts of childhood,And back on the white path of youth; I turnedTo see the wonder palace built for meOnce by the holy hands of sacred Loves.
The path was hidden by the thorny briars;The golden haunts, burned by the midday sun;An earthquake brought the wonder palace low;
And now amidst the ruins and ashes, IAm left alone and palsy-stricken; snakesAnd lizards, pains and hatreds dwell now hereIn constant loathful brotherhood with me.An earthquake brought the wonder palace low!
Wars distant, tempests wild, and foreign landsKeep thy life-mate for years and years away;Dangers and scornings threaten thee; and careWith guile and wrath gird thee, Penelope.About thee, enemies and revellers!But thou wilt hear, and look, and wait for noneBut him; and on thy loom thou weavest alwaysAnd then unweavest the thread of thy true love,Penelope.Than Europe's goods and Asia'sEven a greater treasure is thy kiss;Thy loom, much higher than a royal throne;Thy brow an altar, O Penelope!Mortals and gods know only one more pricelessThan thine own loom, thy forehead, or thy kiss:Thy mate, the king thou always longest for,Penelope. Yet even though strange landsKeep him away from thee, and distant wars,And monstrous Scyllas, and the guileful Sirens,Not even they can blot him from thy soul,Him, thy thought's whitest light, Penelope!
Wars distant, tempests wild, and foreign landsKeep thy life-mate for years and years away;Dangers and scornings threaten thee; and careWith guile and wrath gird thee, Penelope.
About thee, enemies and revellers!But thou wilt hear, and look, and wait for noneBut him; and on thy loom thou weavest alwaysAnd then unweavest the thread of thy true love,Penelope.
Than Europe's goods and Asia'sEven a greater treasure is thy kiss;Thy loom, much higher than a royal throne;Thy brow an altar, O Penelope!
Mortals and gods know only one more pricelessThan thine own loom, thy forehead, or thy kiss:Thy mate, the king thou always longest for,Penelope. Yet even though strange landsKeep him away from thee, and distant wars,And monstrous Scyllas, and the guileful Sirens,Not even they can blot him from thy soul,Him, thy thought's whitest light, Penelope!
To Lesbos' shores, where the year's seasons alwaysSprinkle the field with flowers, and where gladThe rosy-footed Graces always playWith the young maidens, once the stream of Hebrus,Hand-like, brought Orpheus' orphan lyre; and sinceThat time, our island is a sacred shrineOf Harmony, and its wind's breath, a song!The soul Aeolian took up the lyreBorn upon Thracian lands, as foster child;And on its golden strings the restless beatingsOf Sappho's and Erinna's flaming heartsWere echoed burningly.And I, who fightAlways against blind mobs and tyrants deaf,I, the pride of the chosen few, the stayOf the great best, returning from exile,A billow-tossed world-wanderer, did stirThe selfsame lyre with a new quill and breathedUpon its strings a new heroic breath.Upon the love-adorned and verdant island,Like a god's trident, now Alcaeus' quillWakens the storm of sounds, and angrilyHe strikes with words that are like poisoned arrowsDirect and merciless against his foe,Whether a Pittacus or Myrsilus.In vain did tender love reveal before meOn rose-beds Lycus, the young lad, with eyesAnd hair coal-black, with rosy garlands bound,And Sappho of the honeyed smile, the pure,A muse among the muses, and the motherOf a strange modesty. Love moved me not!I raised an altar to the war-god Ares;And on my walls, I hung war ornaments,Weapons exulting in the battle's roar.I sang of the sword bound with ivory,My brother's spoil from distant Babylon.I saw my hapless country's ship tossed hereAnd there, and beaten by the giant wavesOf anarchy; and with my golden Lyre,Whose voice is mightier than the wild furyOf a tempestuous sea, I called on War,The War who revels in men's blood, to comeAs a destroyer or deliverer.And when the war did come in savage din,Brought upon Lesbos by the might of Athens,With heart exultant, I saluted him:"Hail, war of glory!"Yet, alas and thriceAlas! Amidst the world of death and ruins,Though eager warrior and heavy armed,I felt the solid earth beneath me shake;My vengefulness, fade into fleeting mist;My breastplate, press on me like a nightmare;And my white-crested helmet, like a tombstone!Confusion was my harbor; and I feltIn me Life's longing win the victory.And while the nations twain, like maddened bullsGoad-driven, rushed upon each other's death,And stern Alecto spread about the flamesOf Tartarus, I saw before mine eyes—O sight enchanting!—Lesbos' luring shores!Never before were they so beautifulWith love and verdant! There I gazed on Lycus,The boy with eyes and hair coal-black that neverBefore had touched my heart so powerfully.And the Muse Sappho of the honeyed smileGlittered before me, pure and violet crowned;And her strange modesty bewitched my tongueWith power unwonted until then; and I,The strong, silently feasted on her beauty!And while about the maddened Ares raged,Reaper of men and vanquisher of rocks,With my soul's eyes, I followed on the trailOf the Lyre-God, who passed that way, returningFrom the Hyperboreans' land. He passedAloft, crowned with a golden diadem,Upon a chariot drawn by snow-white swans,Towards his Delphic palaces, flower-decked,With nightingales and April on his train.Oh, would that I might live to touch them! WouldThat I might hold their charms in my embrace,Those charms so sweet and guileful and divine!And at the thought—alas, and thrice alas!—I threw my trusted sword and shield away,And fled, a shameful coward and a traitor!
To Lesbos' shores, where the year's seasons alwaysSprinkle the field with flowers, and where gladThe rosy-footed Graces always playWith the young maidens, once the stream of Hebrus,Hand-like, brought Orpheus' orphan lyre; and sinceThat time, our island is a sacred shrineOf Harmony, and its wind's breath, a song!
The soul Aeolian took up the lyreBorn upon Thracian lands, as foster child;And on its golden strings the restless beatingsOf Sappho's and Erinna's flaming heartsWere echoed burningly.
And I, who fightAlways against blind mobs and tyrants deaf,I, the pride of the chosen few, the stayOf the great best, returning from exile,A billow-tossed world-wanderer, did stirThe selfsame lyre with a new quill and breathedUpon its strings a new heroic breath.
Upon the love-adorned and verdant island,Like a god's trident, now Alcaeus' quillWakens the storm of sounds, and angrilyHe strikes with words that are like poisoned arrowsDirect and merciless against his foe,Whether a Pittacus or Myrsilus.
In vain did tender love reveal before meOn rose-beds Lycus, the young lad, with eyesAnd hair coal-black, with rosy garlands bound,And Sappho of the honeyed smile, the pure,A muse among the muses, and the motherOf a strange modesty. Love moved me not!
I raised an altar to the war-god Ares;And on my walls, I hung war ornaments,Weapons exulting in the battle's roar.I sang of the sword bound with ivory,My brother's spoil from distant Babylon.I saw my hapless country's ship tossed hereAnd there, and beaten by the giant wavesOf anarchy; and with my golden Lyre,Whose voice is mightier than the wild furyOf a tempestuous sea, I called on War,The War who revels in men's blood, to comeAs a destroyer or deliverer.
And when the war did come in savage din,Brought upon Lesbos by the might of Athens,With heart exultant, I saluted him:"Hail, war of glory!"Yet, alas and thriceAlas! Amidst the world of death and ruins,Though eager warrior and heavy armed,I felt the solid earth beneath me shake;My vengefulness, fade into fleeting mist;My breastplate, press on me like a nightmare;And my white-crested helmet, like a tombstone!
Confusion was my harbor; and I feltIn me Life's longing win the victory.And while the nations twain, like maddened bullsGoad-driven, rushed upon each other's death,And stern Alecto spread about the flamesOf Tartarus, I saw before mine eyes—O sight enchanting!—Lesbos' luring shores!
Never before were they so beautifulWith love and verdant! There I gazed on Lycus,The boy with eyes and hair coal-black that neverBefore had touched my heart so powerfully.And the Muse Sappho of the honeyed smileGlittered before me, pure and violet crowned;And her strange modesty bewitched my tongueWith power unwonted until then; and I,The strong, silently feasted on her beauty!
And while about the maddened Ares raged,Reaper of men and vanquisher of rocks,With my soul's eyes, I followed on the trailOf the Lyre-God, who passed that way, returningFrom the Hyperboreans' land. He passedAloft, crowned with a golden diadem,Upon a chariot drawn by snow-white swans,Towards his Delphic palaces, flower-decked,With nightingales and April on his train.
Oh, would that I might live to touch them! WouldThat I might hold their charms in my embrace,Those charms so sweet and guileful and divine!
And at the thought—alas, and thrice alas!—I threw my trusted sword and shield away,And fled, a shameful coward and a traitor!
FRAGMENTS FROM THE SONG TO THE SUN1899
IMAGINATIONImagination, mistress, come!Come thou leading master, mind!And you, O tireless workers, come,Water-Fairies of the Rhythm!Come, and from Desire's great depths,And from the Reason's lofty heights,Bring, oh bring me lasting flowersWrought on marble and on gold!Bring me words of splendid sound!Build with them the palace high!And within it raise aloftThe Sun's image all-transcendingWrought of sunlight gleaming bright!
Imagination, mistress, come!Come thou leading master, mind!And you, O tireless workers, come,Water-Fairies of the Rhythm!Come, and from Desire's great depths,And from the Reason's lofty heights,Bring, oh bring me lasting flowersWrought on marble and on gold!Bring me words of splendid sound!Build with them the palace high!And within it raise aloftThe Sun's image all-transcendingWrought of sunlight gleaming bright!
Imagination, mistress, come!Come thou leading master, mind!And you, O tireless workers, come,Water-Fairies of the Rhythm!Come, and from Desire's great depths,And from the Reason's lofty heights,Bring, oh bring me lasting flowersWrought on marble and on gold!Bring me words of splendid sound!Build with them the palace high!And within it raise aloftThe Sun's image all-transcendingWrought of sunlight gleaming bright!
THE GODSAnd the first-born man beheldThe sun rise in the east;And from within his bosom lo,A stream of music rose,An answer sweet to the sun's light,A music stream of hymns,Countless words and countless praisesTo the fountain of the day!And—O miracle!—all hymnsAnd countless words and praisesSpread in waves from end to end!And taking flesh in time,They became great gods of lightAnd signs of harmony!MY GODWounded with the mighty loveOf my mistress Life,I wander on, her loyal heraldAnd her worshipper.To thy mystic suppers callMe not, O Galilean,Prophet of the misty dream,Denier of things that are!Crowned with lotus, show me notNirvana's senseless bliss!Yet, do thou, O Sun, shine forthAbout, within, above;Shine upon my love and makeA world of the Earth planet!Shine life-giving with thy light,O my Sun and God!HELEN... She gave not me, but made a breathing imageOf the light air of heaven and gave thatTo royal Priam's son! And yet he thoughtThat he had me—a vain imagining!...Euripides,Helen, 33-36.Helen am I! In the Sun's fountainHave I taken birth!I am the Sun-god's golden dream,And unto him I go!Not about me, but aboutMine image, which the godsHad wrought, life's perfect counterfeit,Recklessly gods and heroesPlunged into war and war's destruction!For the CimmerianEnchanter carried far awayAs his own mate my shadeThrice-beautiful, that rose to lifeFrom Night's embrace in anEnchanted land and hour. I amThe bride intangible,Inviolable, beyond all reach!Helen am I!THE LYREI know a lyre that is as pricelessAs a sacred amulet;A spirit with a master handMade it and cast it here.No mortal hand of skill or loveOr power rouses it,Nor makes it answer to the touchWith sound or voice or sigh.Even the wise and beautiful,The northwind and the breezeCannot awaken the sweet lyre!Only the Sun-god's beams,They with one kiss alone can makeIts sun-enamored stringsSing Siren-like!GIANTS' SHADOWSLike moanings of the sea, I hearVoices ascend from darkness:Are they the giants' shadows moving?—Shadow, who art thou? Speak!—I am the Telamonian!And see, within me IClose the whole sun that never setsThough Hades yawn about;Weep not for me!—And thou beside him?—The heart of Teutons' landBrought me to life. A maker, I,Maker sublime of worldsOlympian, have even hereIn Tartarus' dark realmOne longing for my heart, one thirst:I long and thirst for light!THE HOLY VIRGIN IN HELLThe chariot moves, drawn by wingsOf Cherub Spirits, on!In Hell, the Holy Virgin gleams!"Mercy, O sunlike Lady!"The damnèd cry and beat their breastsAmidst the flames that burn,Fed by the great abyss. Among them,A sudden proud complaintIs heard: "A worshipper was IOf the great Sun; was thisA cause for night to fetter me?Tell me, O sunlike Lady!The light of life I sucked, did thatBecome the Hell's embraceAnd Satan's kiss for me?"SUNRISEThe white swans gently drag their boatsOf ivory; bright beamsGlimmer as through a veil of agate;And coral-wrought, the crownsShine on fair locks like amber gleaming.A pearl lake dreamlike livesWith water lilies studded.Azure-browed Fairies revellingQuaff wine of honey gold;And mighty riders steal awayWith brides thrice-beautiful.But thou, an archer mightier,Risest unmaking allThe multitudes of binding charmsWith the one charm of light,O God of wing-sped chariot!DOUBLE SONGThe lithesome maiden stood thrice-fair,Her eyes like gems agleam!"I pour the crimson wine of loveIn empty cups of gold!"—"Maiden, I am the nestless bird;Flowery boughs bar notMy way. Bound for bright suns magnetic,I sail through darkness blind.Seer am I and worshipperOf all that is and lives!I am the harp of thousand stringsOf countless sounds!"—"Thou blind!Seest thou not within mine eyesThe magnetism and gloryOf all the suns?"THE SUN-BORNOn great Olympus, a feast of joy!The gods divide the earth;The light-bestower is away;Forgotten he will be.And the light-giver came and noddedTo the blue sea; and lo,The sea was rent with fruitful heave!And the Sun's island roseWith a thousand beauties crowned;And makers lived upon the island,Beings above all men;And they made statues masterful,All beautiful like godsAnd living as immortals live!ON THE HEIGHTS OF PARADISEThe little house I built for theeTo dwell therein, enchanter,Even that—to my care-bent grief—Becomes a heavy grave.Yet, little soul of lily whiteness,Spare me thy sad complaint;For on the heights of paradise,I wander longing andI search. I search and wait for it.And on the crossroads wideOf the suns, I shall find a houseSnow-white that even eaglesHigh-flying never face; a houseThat Visions great aloneMay touch. Therein I shall enthrone thee!THE STRANGERWhen first the vaulting palm-leaves spreadTheir shelter over thee,The golden Cyclads danced aboutWith merry shouts and laughter.But now,—O nakedness of plainsAnd mountains! WitheringOf green leaves everywhere! Thorns suckThe green blood of the vines!No April looked on thee again;And on the desert land,The wars of elements and beastsRage furious. But theeThe snow-white swans bring back no more;Thou art for ever guestAt the Hyperboreans' feast.AN ORPHIC HYMNFar from the footpaths of the thoughtless,An Orphic priest and bard,I bring to light again a hymnOf a thrice-ancient cult.For until now my thought flowed on,A river under earth.Amidst men's tumult my lyre's rhythm,A sudden wonder rose.At night I start, at night I climbThe mountain difficult;I wish alone and first to greetLight ApollonianWhile among mortal men belowDarkness and sleep shall reign.THE POETSun made the lily white,The glory of the flowery earth;Sun made the swan, which isThe lily of a life white-winged;The eagle, whom he luresSpell-bound to his great heights,And the gold shimmer of the moon,The lovers' loving comrade.And then he dreamed a creature fullerOf lilies, eagles, swans, and shimmers,And made the poet. HeAlone beholds thee face to face,O God; and he alone,Reaching into thy heart, revealsTo us thy mysteries.KRISHNA'S WORDSI am the light within the sun,The flush within the fire;And on the page of the sacred book,I am the mystic word.The men of mighty deeds call meGlory; the wise men, wisdom.Of things existing and of truth,I am the fountain head!I am the life of all that is!Beings and pearls are boundTogether with one thread; and that,Is I! Maya alone,The sorceress, behind me followsBeguiling me. But IBattle with her to victory!THE TOWER OF THE SUNAway beyond the world's far edge,And where the heavens end,The tower of the sun shines brightDazzling the mortal's mind.Once mighty princes, sons of kings,Went on a chase most wonderful,And stopped at the Sun's tower.And the Sun came, the dragon star,The giant merciless!Woe unto him who lingers thereBy the far heavens' end!And the Sun came; and with his spell,He turned them into stones,The princely hunters, sons of kings!No azure field, no streak of green,No shadow, and no breath!Only a death of light and lightningGlitters about and gleams!And in the tower, in and out,As if by masters set,A world of statues voiceless stand,The offsprings of great kings.And from their deep and smothered eyes,Something like living glanceStruggles to peep through its stone veil!It seems the stone-bound princesWait for a sail, long lingering,From the world's shores away.And thou, O princess beautiful,Camest from far away,A fair Redeemer! The Sun's towerGleamed forth as if the lightOf a new Dawn embraced its walls.Thou knowest where Life's FountainFlows, and thou searchest silently,With steps that slowly moveTowards the fountain tower-guarded whereLife's water flows. And lo,Taming the watchful dragon's fangs,Thou drawest from the fountainWhere the sweet water of Life flows on;And sprinkling them with it,Thou wakest up the sons of kings!And on thy homeward trail,Thou shinest with transcending gleam,Like a far greater Sun!A MOURNING SONGNo! Death cannot have taken thee!In the sweet hour of love,The Sun-god lifted thee away,O child of sunlike beauty!He took thee to his palacesTo fill thee with his love,A love that lives in light and isAn endless glittering!Flowers with light-born fragrancesAnd fruits as sweet as light,The Sun will pluck for thee; and heWill bathe thee in a streamFlooded with light. And cladIn a white robe of light, my child,Thou wilt come back to me,Riding on a star-crowned deer!PRAYER OF THE FIRST-BORN MENEach time the dawn reveals thy face,Each time the darkness hides thee,Before the eyes of all the world,In crimson red thou shinest,Father and God blood-revelling!A bath in blood immortalizesThine unfathomed beauty!Blood feeds and veils thee, FatherAnd God blood-revelling!To quench thy thirst, we offer theeOur only children's lives;And if their blood fills not thy thirst,We spread for thee a seaOf all the blood of our own heart!THOUGHT OF THE LAST-BORN MENWhere temples sounded with hosannas,Stones lie dumb in crumbling ruins;And forgetfulness has sweptDreams and phantoms once called gods.Even you are gone, O myths,Golden makers of the thought,Gone beyond return!In the empty Infinite,Blind laws drive in multitudesFlaming worlds of endless depths.And yet neither gold-haired Phoebus,Who is dead, nor yet the sun,Who now lives a world-abyss,None, God or law, upon this earthCould save us or will ever saveEither from the claws of loveOr from the teeth of death!MOLOCHBarbarians defile the landWhere the Greek race was born!And where the loves flew garlanded,Night-bats roam to and fro!And in our night, as a glowworm,The ancients' memorySends forth its greenish counterfeitOf light! It is a nightThat our undying sun cannotDispel with its bright beams!From depths and heights, barbariansSuck soul and fatherland!And when with a low moan thrice-deep,We ask thee, Grecian God,"Art thou the golden-haired Apollo?"Grimly thou answerest,"Moloch, am I!"ALL THE STARSWhen I first looked with wondermentOn thee, O Muse of Light,The morning star upon thy browShone with bright glittering.And I said: "More of light I need!"And as I looked againOn thee, O Muse of Light, the moonShone brightly on thy brow.And "More!" I said and looked again:And saw the sun agleam!But still insatiate I am,And wait to look on theeWhen on thy brow, O Muse of Light,The star-spun sky shall shine!ARROWSThou earnest, Phoebus, lower downFrom pure Olympus' heightsTowards the land where idle menAnd sluggards worthless dwell;And on thy lyre thou playedst, FountainOf flowing harmonies!The deaf made answer with their sneers!The blind, with scornful laughter!And then to rid the world of filthAnd purify the air,Thou threwest away thine angry lyre;And turning archer, thou,With fiery arrows smotest allThe flocks of fools away!
And the first-born man beheldThe sun rise in the east;And from within his bosom lo,A stream of music rose,An answer sweet to the sun's light,A music stream of hymns,Countless words and countless praisesTo the fountain of the day!And—O miracle!—all hymnsAnd countless words and praisesSpread in waves from end to end!And taking flesh in time,They became great gods of lightAnd signs of harmony!
And the first-born man beheldThe sun rise in the east;And from within his bosom lo,A stream of music rose,An answer sweet to the sun's light,A music stream of hymns,Countless words and countless praisesTo the fountain of the day!And—O miracle!—all hymnsAnd countless words and praisesSpread in waves from end to end!And taking flesh in time,They became great gods of lightAnd signs of harmony!
Wounded with the mighty loveOf my mistress Life,I wander on, her loyal heraldAnd her worshipper.To thy mystic suppers callMe not, O Galilean,Prophet of the misty dream,Denier of things that are!Crowned with lotus, show me notNirvana's senseless bliss!Yet, do thou, O Sun, shine forthAbout, within, above;Shine upon my love and makeA world of the Earth planet!Shine life-giving with thy light,O my Sun and God!
Wounded with the mighty loveOf my mistress Life,I wander on, her loyal heraldAnd her worshipper.To thy mystic suppers callMe not, O Galilean,Prophet of the misty dream,Denier of things that are!Crowned with lotus, show me notNirvana's senseless bliss!Yet, do thou, O Sun, shine forthAbout, within, above;Shine upon my love and makeA world of the Earth planet!Shine life-giving with thy light,O my Sun and God!
... She gave not me, but made a breathing imageOf the light air of heaven and gave thatTo royal Priam's son! And yet he thoughtThat he had me—a vain imagining!...Euripides,Helen, 33-36.
... She gave not me, but made a breathing imageOf the light air of heaven and gave thatTo royal Priam's son! And yet he thoughtThat he had me—a vain imagining!...
Euripides,Helen, 33-36.
Helen am I! In the Sun's fountainHave I taken birth!I am the Sun-god's golden dream,And unto him I go!Not about me, but aboutMine image, which the godsHad wrought, life's perfect counterfeit,Recklessly gods and heroesPlunged into war and war's destruction!For the CimmerianEnchanter carried far awayAs his own mate my shadeThrice-beautiful, that rose to lifeFrom Night's embrace in anEnchanted land and hour. I amThe bride intangible,Inviolable, beyond all reach!Helen am I!
Helen am I! In the Sun's fountainHave I taken birth!I am the Sun-god's golden dream,And unto him I go!Not about me, but aboutMine image, which the godsHad wrought, life's perfect counterfeit,Recklessly gods and heroesPlunged into war and war's destruction!For the CimmerianEnchanter carried far awayAs his own mate my shadeThrice-beautiful, that rose to lifeFrom Night's embrace in anEnchanted land and hour. I amThe bride intangible,Inviolable, beyond all reach!Helen am I!
I know a lyre that is as pricelessAs a sacred amulet;A spirit with a master handMade it and cast it here.No mortal hand of skill or loveOr power rouses it,Nor makes it answer to the touchWith sound or voice or sigh.Even the wise and beautiful,The northwind and the breezeCannot awaken the sweet lyre!Only the Sun-god's beams,They with one kiss alone can makeIts sun-enamored stringsSing Siren-like!
I know a lyre that is as pricelessAs a sacred amulet;A spirit with a master handMade it and cast it here.No mortal hand of skill or loveOr power rouses it,Nor makes it answer to the touchWith sound or voice or sigh.Even the wise and beautiful,The northwind and the breezeCannot awaken the sweet lyre!Only the Sun-god's beams,They with one kiss alone can makeIts sun-enamored stringsSing Siren-like!
Like moanings of the sea, I hearVoices ascend from darkness:Are they the giants' shadows moving?—Shadow, who art thou? Speak!—I am the Telamonian!And see, within me IClose the whole sun that never setsThough Hades yawn about;Weep not for me!—And thou beside him?—The heart of Teutons' landBrought me to life. A maker, I,Maker sublime of worldsOlympian, have even hereIn Tartarus' dark realmOne longing for my heart, one thirst:I long and thirst for light!
Like moanings of the sea, I hearVoices ascend from darkness:Are they the giants' shadows moving?—Shadow, who art thou? Speak!—I am the Telamonian!And see, within me IClose the whole sun that never setsThough Hades yawn about;Weep not for me!—And thou beside him?—The heart of Teutons' landBrought me to life. A maker, I,Maker sublime of worldsOlympian, have even hereIn Tartarus' dark realmOne longing for my heart, one thirst:I long and thirst for light!
The chariot moves, drawn by wingsOf Cherub Spirits, on!In Hell, the Holy Virgin gleams!"Mercy, O sunlike Lady!"The damnèd cry and beat their breastsAmidst the flames that burn,Fed by the great abyss. Among them,A sudden proud complaintIs heard: "A worshipper was IOf the great Sun; was thisA cause for night to fetter me?Tell me, O sunlike Lady!The light of life I sucked, did thatBecome the Hell's embraceAnd Satan's kiss for me?"
The chariot moves, drawn by wingsOf Cherub Spirits, on!In Hell, the Holy Virgin gleams!"Mercy, O sunlike Lady!"The damnèd cry and beat their breastsAmidst the flames that burn,Fed by the great abyss. Among them,A sudden proud complaintIs heard: "A worshipper was IOf the great Sun; was thisA cause for night to fetter me?Tell me, O sunlike Lady!The light of life I sucked, did thatBecome the Hell's embraceAnd Satan's kiss for me?"
The white swans gently drag their boatsOf ivory; bright beamsGlimmer as through a veil of agate;And coral-wrought, the crownsShine on fair locks like amber gleaming.A pearl lake dreamlike livesWith water lilies studded.Azure-browed Fairies revellingQuaff wine of honey gold;And mighty riders steal awayWith brides thrice-beautiful.But thou, an archer mightier,Risest unmaking allThe multitudes of binding charmsWith the one charm of light,O God of wing-sped chariot!
The white swans gently drag their boatsOf ivory; bright beamsGlimmer as through a veil of agate;And coral-wrought, the crownsShine on fair locks like amber gleaming.A pearl lake dreamlike livesWith water lilies studded.Azure-browed Fairies revellingQuaff wine of honey gold;And mighty riders steal awayWith brides thrice-beautiful.But thou, an archer mightier,Risest unmaking allThe multitudes of binding charmsWith the one charm of light,O God of wing-sped chariot!
The lithesome maiden stood thrice-fair,Her eyes like gems agleam!"I pour the crimson wine of loveIn empty cups of gold!"—"Maiden, I am the nestless bird;Flowery boughs bar notMy way. Bound for bright suns magnetic,I sail through darkness blind.Seer am I and worshipperOf all that is and lives!I am the harp of thousand stringsOf countless sounds!"—"Thou blind!Seest thou not within mine eyesThe magnetism and gloryOf all the suns?"
The lithesome maiden stood thrice-fair,Her eyes like gems agleam!"I pour the crimson wine of loveIn empty cups of gold!"—"Maiden, I am the nestless bird;Flowery boughs bar notMy way. Bound for bright suns magnetic,I sail through darkness blind.Seer am I and worshipperOf all that is and lives!I am the harp of thousand stringsOf countless sounds!"—"Thou blind!Seest thou not within mine eyesThe magnetism and gloryOf all the suns?"
On great Olympus, a feast of joy!The gods divide the earth;The light-bestower is away;Forgotten he will be.And the light-giver came and noddedTo the blue sea; and lo,The sea was rent with fruitful heave!And the Sun's island roseWith a thousand beauties crowned;And makers lived upon the island,Beings above all men;And they made statues masterful,All beautiful like godsAnd living as immortals live!
On great Olympus, a feast of joy!The gods divide the earth;The light-bestower is away;Forgotten he will be.And the light-giver came and noddedTo the blue sea; and lo,The sea was rent with fruitful heave!And the Sun's island roseWith a thousand beauties crowned;And makers lived upon the island,Beings above all men;And they made statues masterful,All beautiful like godsAnd living as immortals live!
The little house I built for theeTo dwell therein, enchanter,Even that—to my care-bent grief—Becomes a heavy grave.Yet, little soul of lily whiteness,Spare me thy sad complaint;For on the heights of paradise,I wander longing andI search. I search and wait for it.And on the crossroads wideOf the suns, I shall find a houseSnow-white that even eaglesHigh-flying never face; a houseThat Visions great aloneMay touch. Therein I shall enthrone thee!
The little house I built for theeTo dwell therein, enchanter,Even that—to my care-bent grief—Becomes a heavy grave.Yet, little soul of lily whiteness,Spare me thy sad complaint;For on the heights of paradise,I wander longing andI search. I search and wait for it.And on the crossroads wideOf the suns, I shall find a houseSnow-white that even eaglesHigh-flying never face; a houseThat Visions great aloneMay touch. Therein I shall enthrone thee!
When first the vaulting palm-leaves spreadTheir shelter over thee,The golden Cyclads danced aboutWith merry shouts and laughter.But now,—O nakedness of plainsAnd mountains! WitheringOf green leaves everywhere! Thorns suckThe green blood of the vines!No April looked on thee again;And on the desert land,The wars of elements and beastsRage furious. But theeThe snow-white swans bring back no more;Thou art for ever guestAt the Hyperboreans' feast.
When first the vaulting palm-leaves spreadTheir shelter over thee,The golden Cyclads danced aboutWith merry shouts and laughter.But now,—O nakedness of plainsAnd mountains! WitheringOf green leaves everywhere! Thorns suckThe green blood of the vines!No April looked on thee again;And on the desert land,The wars of elements and beastsRage furious. But theeThe snow-white swans bring back no more;Thou art for ever guestAt the Hyperboreans' feast.
Far from the footpaths of the thoughtless,An Orphic priest and bard,I bring to light again a hymnOf a thrice-ancient cult.For until now my thought flowed on,A river under earth.Amidst men's tumult my lyre's rhythm,A sudden wonder rose.At night I start, at night I climbThe mountain difficult;I wish alone and first to greetLight ApollonianWhile among mortal men belowDarkness and sleep shall reign.
Far from the footpaths of the thoughtless,An Orphic priest and bard,I bring to light again a hymnOf a thrice-ancient cult.For until now my thought flowed on,A river under earth.Amidst men's tumult my lyre's rhythm,A sudden wonder rose.At night I start, at night I climbThe mountain difficult;I wish alone and first to greetLight ApollonianWhile among mortal men belowDarkness and sleep shall reign.
Sun made the lily white,The glory of the flowery earth;Sun made the swan, which isThe lily of a life white-winged;The eagle, whom he luresSpell-bound to his great heights,And the gold shimmer of the moon,The lovers' loving comrade.And then he dreamed a creature fullerOf lilies, eagles, swans, and shimmers,And made the poet. HeAlone beholds thee face to face,O God; and he alone,Reaching into thy heart, revealsTo us thy mysteries.
Sun made the lily white,The glory of the flowery earth;Sun made the swan, which isThe lily of a life white-winged;The eagle, whom he luresSpell-bound to his great heights,And the gold shimmer of the moon,The lovers' loving comrade.And then he dreamed a creature fullerOf lilies, eagles, swans, and shimmers,And made the poet. HeAlone beholds thee face to face,O God; and he alone,Reaching into thy heart, revealsTo us thy mysteries.
I am the light within the sun,The flush within the fire;And on the page of the sacred book,I am the mystic word.The men of mighty deeds call meGlory; the wise men, wisdom.Of things existing and of truth,I am the fountain head!I am the life of all that is!Beings and pearls are boundTogether with one thread; and that,Is I! Maya alone,The sorceress, behind me followsBeguiling me. But IBattle with her to victory!
I am the light within the sun,The flush within the fire;And on the page of the sacred book,I am the mystic word.The men of mighty deeds call meGlory; the wise men, wisdom.Of things existing and of truth,I am the fountain head!I am the life of all that is!Beings and pearls are boundTogether with one thread; and that,Is I! Maya alone,The sorceress, behind me followsBeguiling me. But IBattle with her to victory!
Away beyond the world's far edge,And where the heavens end,The tower of the sun shines brightDazzling the mortal's mind.Once mighty princes, sons of kings,Went on a chase most wonderful,And stopped at the Sun's tower.And the Sun came, the dragon star,The giant merciless!Woe unto him who lingers thereBy the far heavens' end!And the Sun came; and with his spell,He turned them into stones,The princely hunters, sons of kings!No azure field, no streak of green,No shadow, and no breath!Only a death of light and lightningGlitters about and gleams!And in the tower, in and out,As if by masters set,A world of statues voiceless stand,The offsprings of great kings.And from their deep and smothered eyes,Something like living glanceStruggles to peep through its stone veil!It seems the stone-bound princesWait for a sail, long lingering,From the world's shores away.And thou, O princess beautiful,Camest from far away,A fair Redeemer! The Sun's towerGleamed forth as if the lightOf a new Dawn embraced its walls.Thou knowest where Life's FountainFlows, and thou searchest silently,With steps that slowly moveTowards the fountain tower-guarded whereLife's water flows. And lo,Taming the watchful dragon's fangs,Thou drawest from the fountainWhere the sweet water of Life flows on;And sprinkling them with it,Thou wakest up the sons of kings!And on thy homeward trail,Thou shinest with transcending gleam,Like a far greater Sun!
Away beyond the world's far edge,And where the heavens end,The tower of the sun shines brightDazzling the mortal's mind.Once mighty princes, sons of kings,Went on a chase most wonderful,And stopped at the Sun's tower.And the Sun came, the dragon star,The giant merciless!Woe unto him who lingers thereBy the far heavens' end!And the Sun came; and with his spell,He turned them into stones,The princely hunters, sons of kings!
No azure field, no streak of green,No shadow, and no breath!Only a death of light and lightningGlitters about and gleams!And in the tower, in and out,As if by masters set,A world of statues voiceless stand,The offsprings of great kings.And from their deep and smothered eyes,Something like living glanceStruggles to peep through its stone veil!It seems the stone-bound princesWait for a sail, long lingering,From the world's shores away.
And thou, O princess beautiful,Camest from far away,A fair Redeemer! The Sun's towerGleamed forth as if the lightOf a new Dawn embraced its walls.Thou knowest where Life's FountainFlows, and thou searchest silently,With steps that slowly moveTowards the fountain tower-guarded whereLife's water flows. And lo,Taming the watchful dragon's fangs,Thou drawest from the fountainWhere the sweet water of Life flows on;And sprinkling them with it,Thou wakest up the sons of kings!And on thy homeward trail,Thou shinest with transcending gleam,Like a far greater Sun!
No! Death cannot have taken thee!In the sweet hour of love,The Sun-god lifted thee away,O child of sunlike beauty!He took thee to his palacesTo fill thee with his love,A love that lives in light and isAn endless glittering!Flowers with light-born fragrancesAnd fruits as sweet as light,The Sun will pluck for thee; and heWill bathe thee in a streamFlooded with light. And cladIn a white robe of light, my child,Thou wilt come back to me,Riding on a star-crowned deer!
No! Death cannot have taken thee!In the sweet hour of love,The Sun-god lifted thee away,O child of sunlike beauty!He took thee to his palacesTo fill thee with his love,A love that lives in light and isAn endless glittering!Flowers with light-born fragrancesAnd fruits as sweet as light,The Sun will pluck for thee; and heWill bathe thee in a streamFlooded with light. And cladIn a white robe of light, my child,Thou wilt come back to me,Riding on a star-crowned deer!
Each time the dawn reveals thy face,Each time the darkness hides thee,Before the eyes of all the world,In crimson red thou shinest,Father and God blood-revelling!A bath in blood immortalizesThine unfathomed beauty!Blood feeds and veils thee, FatherAnd God blood-revelling!To quench thy thirst, we offer theeOur only children's lives;And if their blood fills not thy thirst,We spread for thee a seaOf all the blood of our own heart!
Each time the dawn reveals thy face,Each time the darkness hides thee,Before the eyes of all the world,In crimson red thou shinest,Father and God blood-revelling!A bath in blood immortalizesThine unfathomed beauty!Blood feeds and veils thee, FatherAnd God blood-revelling!To quench thy thirst, we offer theeOur only children's lives;And if their blood fills not thy thirst,We spread for thee a seaOf all the blood of our own heart!
Where temples sounded with hosannas,Stones lie dumb in crumbling ruins;And forgetfulness has sweptDreams and phantoms once called gods.Even you are gone, O myths,Golden makers of the thought,Gone beyond return!In the empty Infinite,Blind laws drive in multitudesFlaming worlds of endless depths.And yet neither gold-haired Phoebus,Who is dead, nor yet the sun,Who now lives a world-abyss,None, God or law, upon this earthCould save us or will ever saveEither from the claws of loveOr from the teeth of death!
Where temples sounded with hosannas,Stones lie dumb in crumbling ruins;And forgetfulness has sweptDreams and phantoms once called gods.Even you are gone, O myths,Golden makers of the thought,Gone beyond return!In the empty Infinite,Blind laws drive in multitudesFlaming worlds of endless depths.And yet neither gold-haired Phoebus,Who is dead, nor yet the sun,Who now lives a world-abyss,None, God or law, upon this earthCould save us or will ever saveEither from the claws of loveOr from the teeth of death!
Barbarians defile the landWhere the Greek race was born!And where the loves flew garlanded,Night-bats roam to and fro!And in our night, as a glowworm,The ancients' memorySends forth its greenish counterfeitOf light! It is a nightThat our undying sun cannotDispel with its bright beams!From depths and heights, barbariansSuck soul and fatherland!And when with a low moan thrice-deep,We ask thee, Grecian God,"Art thou the golden-haired Apollo?"Grimly thou answerest,"Moloch, am I!"
Barbarians defile the landWhere the Greek race was born!And where the loves flew garlanded,Night-bats roam to and fro!And in our night, as a glowworm,The ancients' memorySends forth its greenish counterfeitOf light! It is a nightThat our undying sun cannotDispel with its bright beams!From depths and heights, barbariansSuck soul and fatherland!And when with a low moan thrice-deep,We ask thee, Grecian God,"Art thou the golden-haired Apollo?"Grimly thou answerest,"Moloch, am I!"
When I first looked with wondermentOn thee, O Muse of Light,The morning star upon thy browShone with bright glittering.And I said: "More of light I need!"And as I looked againOn thee, O Muse of Light, the moonShone brightly on thy brow.And "More!" I said and looked again:And saw the sun agleam!But still insatiate I am,And wait to look on theeWhen on thy brow, O Muse of Light,The star-spun sky shall shine!
When I first looked with wondermentOn thee, O Muse of Light,The morning star upon thy browShone with bright glittering.And I said: "More of light I need!"And as I looked againOn thee, O Muse of Light, the moonShone brightly on thy brow.And "More!" I said and looked again:And saw the sun agleam!But still insatiate I am,And wait to look on theeWhen on thy brow, O Muse of Light,The star-spun sky shall shine!
Thou earnest, Phoebus, lower downFrom pure Olympus' heightsTowards the land where idle menAnd sluggards worthless dwell;And on thy lyre thou playedst, FountainOf flowing harmonies!The deaf made answer with their sneers!The blind, with scornful laughter!And then to rid the world of filthAnd purify the air,Thou threwest away thine angry lyre;And turning archer, thou,With fiery arrows smotest allThe flocks of fools away!
Thou earnest, Phoebus, lower downFrom pure Olympus' heightsTowards the land where idle menAnd sluggards worthless dwell;And on thy lyre thou playedst, FountainOf flowing harmonies!The deaf made answer with their sneers!The blind, with scornful laughter!And then to rid the world of filthAnd purify the air,Thou threwest away thine angry lyre;And turning archer, thou,With fiery arrows smotest allThe flocks of fools away!
VERSES OF A FAMILIAR TUNE1900
THE BEGINNINGA wedding guest, I travel far abroad!The bride, thrice beautiful; the groom, a wizard;And I ride swiftly to the wedding feast.The land is far, and I must travel on;An endless path before me leads away,But till I reach the end, I check the ardorOf my swift-footed stallion silver-shod,And wisely shorten my way's weary lengthWith sounds that, like sweet longings, wake in me,Old sounds familiar, low-whisperingOf women's beauties and of home-born shadows.Then flowers pour their fragrances for me;And blossoms with no scent have their own speech,The speech of voiceless eyes that open wide;Unconsciously I speak my words in rimesThat with uncommon measure echo forthThe flames that burn within the heart, the kissesThat the waves squander on the sandy beach,And the sweet birds that sing on children's lips!
A wedding guest, I travel far abroad!The bride, thrice beautiful; the groom, a wizard;And I ride swiftly to the wedding feast.The land is far, and I must travel on;An endless path before me leads away,But till I reach the end, I check the ardorOf my swift-footed stallion silver-shod,And wisely shorten my way's weary lengthWith sounds that, like sweet longings, wake in me,Old sounds familiar, low-whisperingOf women's beauties and of home-born shadows.Then flowers pour their fragrances for me;And blossoms with no scent have their own speech,The speech of voiceless eyes that open wide;Unconsciously I speak my words in rimesThat with uncommon measure echo forthThe flames that burn within the heart, the kissesThat the waves squander on the sandy beach,And the sweet birds that sing on children's lips!
A wedding guest, I travel far abroad!The bride, thrice beautiful; the groom, a wizard;And I ride swiftly to the wedding feast.The land is far, and I must travel on;An endless path before me leads away,But till I reach the end, I check the ardorOf my swift-footed stallion silver-shod,And wisely shorten my way's weary lengthWith sounds that, like sweet longings, wake in me,Old sounds familiar, low-whisperingOf women's beauties and of home-born shadows.Then flowers pour their fragrances for me;And blossoms with no scent have their own speech,The speech of voiceless eyes that open wide;Unconsciously I speak my words in rimesThat with uncommon measure echo forthThe flames that burn within the heart, the kissesThat the waves squander on the sandy beach,And the sweet birds that sing on children's lips!