X
Already, in this moment before silverMorning, ten were on their way to sea.Already, over mountains and rock rivers—Tawny with high autumn, yet no sunUprisen had revealed it—Hermes spedAnd spoke not. At the center of his band,Encircled, he was thoughtful as he flewAnd flew to where a smoking funnel waited,By a smooth prow whereon the ten would ride,Would ride the waste Atlantic.“They were small,These people, they were pitiful and small,”Said Hermes, half aloud. “Yet not unworthy,Nobles, of our regard.”“They did not guess,”Said Artemis, “how small.”“They could not measure,”Flashed the grey eyes of swift Athene, flying,“Difference. They were lonely. They had nothingPast them to compare. They do not move,These persons, among greater persons still.The knowledge of the difference is all.Mortals with art to measure it are neverPitiful.”“I thought,” mused Aphrodite,Beautiful by night as her own star,Her morning’s mirror, up now in the east,“I thought I met a presence in that mustyStable. Felt a power. Yet all so quiet—Not even the black beetles crept away.Queer, if it was a god—their only god,And none of the fools knew.”“It was your ownMind’s darkness,” Ares muttered; and HephaestusLaughed—at Aphrodite he could laugh,Now that his limbs were free.“Was there a song?Even a musty music? Where a god is,Surely the air will sound.” Apollo hummed,Remembering the barn dance and the moon.“Did you hear anything to prove a presence?”Artemis, her green robe gilded suddenlyBy the first beams of sun, was angry still.“She heard but her own hatefulness, that plottedDeath.”“I left the living in your hands—Yours, and the mighty angel’s. If you erred,Darling of fawns and virgins, I regret,As you must, any faltering of skill.”“Regret!” The speed of Artemis redoubledAs fury filled her. “Lying, laughing word!You poison the whole dawn with it, as thenYou poisoned—for I know you did—the thorns,The rare leaves I used.”But Hermes cried:“Peace, peace between you, daughters! What is doneIs done. There the ship rides that we take—As one we take it, homing to those landsWhere sleep is our best portion. Only sleep.”He sighed, and the archangels echoed him:Those three whose sire, unknown to them last night,Had dreamed again—a star above a stable.“Not even sleep,” said Michael. “No, not evenSleep,” droned weary Gabriel. But Raphael’sSadness was for Artemis to see,And seeing, to have pity on, that no wordHenceforth could express.For now the shipWhistled, and the spires above the harborGlistened, and the hawsers, letting go,Dangled in salt.So easterly they sailed,And sailed; then south a little. And the crewThought only of the Pillars, of the inlandSea where waves were smaller. But these ten,Prone on the prow, disdained the autumn dangerOf storm, of the dark swell. Their daily vision—Common to them all, since reconciled—Was the long night ahead; or over Asia,Centuries upon centuries of flying,Flying where no desert, green with the Word,Blossomed and blessed them.Now as in a dreamNever to be redreamed the hills behind them,Huddling that valley, muffled its fine criesOf people trapped in sorrow. Even its glad souls,Silenced, were obscure as drops of dewHung in the wild Antipodes. No mortalSummer would be given these again:These deities, these angels, who as the dark seaHeaved went on themselves as waves do,Wearily, yet smiling as in a dream.
Already, in this moment before silverMorning, ten were on their way to sea.Already, over mountains and rock rivers—Tawny with high autumn, yet no sunUprisen had revealed it—Hermes spedAnd spoke not. At the center of his band,Encircled, he was thoughtful as he flewAnd flew to where a smoking funnel waited,By a smooth prow whereon the ten would ride,Would ride the waste Atlantic.“They were small,These people, they were pitiful and small,”Said Hermes, half aloud. “Yet not unworthy,Nobles, of our regard.”“They did not guess,”Said Artemis, “how small.”“They could not measure,”Flashed the grey eyes of swift Athene, flying,“Difference. They were lonely. They had nothingPast them to compare. They do not move,These persons, among greater persons still.The knowledge of the difference is all.Mortals with art to measure it are neverPitiful.”“I thought,” mused Aphrodite,Beautiful by night as her own star,Her morning’s mirror, up now in the east,“I thought I met a presence in that mustyStable. Felt a power. Yet all so quiet—Not even the black beetles crept away.Queer, if it was a god—their only god,And none of the fools knew.”“It was your ownMind’s darkness,” Ares muttered; and HephaestusLaughed—at Aphrodite he could laugh,Now that his limbs were free.“Was there a song?Even a musty music? Where a god is,Surely the air will sound.” Apollo hummed,Remembering the barn dance and the moon.“Did you hear anything to prove a presence?”Artemis, her green robe gilded suddenlyBy the first beams of sun, was angry still.“She heard but her own hatefulness, that plottedDeath.”“I left the living in your hands—Yours, and the mighty angel’s. If you erred,Darling of fawns and virgins, I regret,As you must, any faltering of skill.”“Regret!” The speed of Artemis redoubledAs fury filled her. “Lying, laughing word!You poison the whole dawn with it, as thenYou poisoned—for I know you did—the thorns,The rare leaves I used.”But Hermes cried:“Peace, peace between you, daughters! What is doneIs done. There the ship rides that we take—As one we take it, homing to those landsWhere sleep is our best portion. Only sleep.”He sighed, and the archangels echoed him:Those three whose sire, unknown to them last night,Had dreamed again—a star above a stable.“Not even sleep,” said Michael. “No, not evenSleep,” droned weary Gabriel. But Raphael’sSadness was for Artemis to see,And seeing, to have pity on, that no wordHenceforth could express.For now the shipWhistled, and the spires above the harborGlistened, and the hawsers, letting go,Dangled in salt.So easterly they sailed,And sailed; then south a little. And the crewThought only of the Pillars, of the inlandSea where waves were smaller. But these ten,Prone on the prow, disdained the autumn dangerOf storm, of the dark swell. Their daily vision—Common to them all, since reconciled—Was the long night ahead; or over Asia,Centuries upon centuries of flying,Flying where no desert, green with the Word,Blossomed and blessed them.Now as in a dreamNever to be redreamed the hills behind them,Huddling that valley, muffled its fine criesOf people trapped in sorrow. Even its glad souls,Silenced, were obscure as drops of dewHung in the wild Antipodes. No mortalSummer would be given these again:These deities, these angels, who as the dark seaHeaved went on themselves as waves do,Wearily, yet smiling as in a dream.
Already, in this moment before silverMorning, ten were on their way to sea.Already, over mountains and rock rivers—Tawny with high autumn, yet no sunUprisen had revealed it—Hermes spedAnd spoke not. At the center of his band,Encircled, he was thoughtful as he flewAnd flew to where a smoking funnel waited,By a smooth prow whereon the ten would ride,Would ride the waste Atlantic.“They were small,These people, they were pitiful and small,”Said Hermes, half aloud. “Yet not unworthy,Nobles, of our regard.”“They did not guess,”Said Artemis, “how small.”“They could not measure,”Flashed the grey eyes of swift Athene, flying,“Difference. They were lonely. They had nothingPast them to compare. They do not move,These persons, among greater persons still.The knowledge of the difference is all.Mortals with art to measure it are neverPitiful.”“I thought,” mused Aphrodite,Beautiful by night as her own star,Her morning’s mirror, up now in the east,“I thought I met a presence in that mustyStable. Felt a power. Yet all so quiet—Not even the black beetles crept away.Queer, if it was a god—their only god,And none of the fools knew.”“It was your ownMind’s darkness,” Ares muttered; and HephaestusLaughed—at Aphrodite he could laugh,Now that his limbs were free.“Was there a song?Even a musty music? Where a god is,Surely the air will sound.” Apollo hummed,Remembering the barn dance and the moon.“Did you hear anything to prove a presence?”
Already, in this moment before silver
Morning, ten were on their way to sea.
Already, over mountains and rock rivers—
Tawny with high autumn, yet no sun
Uprisen had revealed it—Hermes sped
And spoke not. At the center of his band,
Encircled, he was thoughtful as he flew
And flew to where a smoking funnel waited,
By a smooth prow whereon the ten would ride,
Would ride the waste Atlantic.
“They were small,
These people, they were pitiful and small,”
Said Hermes, half aloud. “Yet not unworthy,
Nobles, of our regard.”
“They did not guess,”
Said Artemis, “how small.”
“They could not measure,”
Flashed the grey eyes of swift Athene, flying,
“Difference. They were lonely. They had nothing
Past them to compare. They do not move,
These persons, among greater persons still.
The knowledge of the difference is all.
Mortals with art to measure it are never
Pitiful.”
“I thought,” mused Aphrodite,
Beautiful by night as her own star,
Her morning’s mirror, up now in the east,
“I thought I met a presence in that musty
Stable. Felt a power. Yet all so quiet—
Not even the black beetles crept away.
Queer, if it was a god—their only god,
And none of the fools knew.”
“It was your own
Mind’s darkness,” Ares muttered; and Hephaestus
Laughed—at Aphrodite he could laugh,
Now that his limbs were free.
“Was there a song?
Even a musty music? Where a god is,
Surely the air will sound.” Apollo hummed,
Remembering the barn dance and the moon.
“Did you hear anything to prove a presence?”
Artemis, her green robe gilded suddenlyBy the first beams of sun, was angry still.“She heard but her own hatefulness, that plottedDeath.”“I left the living in your hands—Yours, and the mighty angel’s. If you erred,Darling of fawns and virgins, I regret,As you must, any faltering of skill.”
Artemis, her green robe gilded suddenly
By the first beams of sun, was angry still.
“She heard but her own hatefulness, that plotted
Death.”
“I left the living in your hands—
Yours, and the mighty angel’s. If you erred,
Darling of fawns and virgins, I regret,
As you must, any faltering of skill.”
“Regret!” The speed of Artemis redoubledAs fury filled her. “Lying, laughing word!You poison the whole dawn with it, as thenYou poisoned—for I know you did—the thorns,The rare leaves I used.”But Hermes cried:“Peace, peace between you, daughters! What is doneIs done. There the ship rides that we take—As one we take it, homing to those landsWhere sleep is our best portion. Only sleep.”
“Regret!” The speed of Artemis redoubled
As fury filled her. “Lying, laughing word!
You poison the whole dawn with it, as then
You poisoned—for I know you did—the thorns,
The rare leaves I used.”
But Hermes cried:
“Peace, peace between you, daughters! What is done
Is done. There the ship rides that we take—
As one we take it, homing to those lands
Where sleep is our best portion. Only sleep.”
He sighed, and the archangels echoed him:Those three whose sire, unknown to them last night,Had dreamed again—a star above a stable.“Not even sleep,” said Michael. “No, not evenSleep,” droned weary Gabriel. But Raphael’sSadness was for Artemis to see,And seeing, to have pity on, that no wordHenceforth could express.For now the shipWhistled, and the spires above the harborGlistened, and the hawsers, letting go,Dangled in salt.So easterly they sailed,And sailed; then south a little. And the crewThought only of the Pillars, of the inlandSea where waves were smaller. But these ten,Prone on the prow, disdained the autumn dangerOf storm, of the dark swell. Their daily vision—Common to them all, since reconciled—Was the long night ahead; or over Asia,Centuries upon centuries of flying,Flying where no desert, green with the Word,Blossomed and blessed them.Now as in a dreamNever to be redreamed the hills behind them,Huddling that valley, muffled its fine criesOf people trapped in sorrow. Even its glad souls,Silenced, were obscure as drops of dewHung in the wild Antipodes. No mortalSummer would be given these again:These deities, these angels, who as the dark seaHeaved went on themselves as waves do,Wearily, yet smiling as in a dream.
He sighed, and the archangels echoed him:
Those three whose sire, unknown to them last night,
Had dreamed again—a star above a stable.
“Not even sleep,” said Michael. “No, not even
Sleep,” droned weary Gabriel. But Raphael’s
Sadness was for Artemis to see,
And seeing, to have pity on, that no word
Henceforth could express.
For now the ship
Whistled, and the spires above the harbor
Glistened, and the hawsers, letting go,
Dangled in salt.
So easterly they sailed,
And sailed; then south a little. And the crew
Thought only of the Pillars, of the inland
Sea where waves were smaller. But these ten,
Prone on the prow, disdained the autumn danger
Of storm, of the dark swell. Their daily vision—
Common to them all, since reconciled—
Was the long night ahead; or over Asia,
Centuries upon centuries of flying,
Flying where no desert, green with the Word,
Blossomed and blessed them.
Now as in a dream
Never to be redreamed the hills behind them,
Huddling that valley, muffled its fine cries
Of people trapped in sorrow. Even its glad souls,
Silenced, were obscure as drops of dew
Hung in the wild Antipodes. No mortal
Summer would be given these again:
These deities, these angels, who as the dark sea
Heaved went on themselves as waves do,
Wearily, yet smiling as in a dream.