I have lived long enough, having seen one thing, that love hath an end;Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and befriend.Thou art more than the day or the morrow, the seasons that laugh or that weep;For these give joy and sorrow; but thou, Proserpina, sleep.Sweet is the treading of wine, and sweet the feet of the dove;But a goodlier gift is thine than foam of the grapes or love.Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and harpstring of gold,A bitter God to follow, a beautiful God to behold?I am sick of singing: the bays burn deep and chafe: I am fainTo rest a little from praise and grievous pleasure and pain.For the Gods we know not of, who give us our daily breath,We know they are cruel as love or life, and lovely as death.O Gods dethroned and deceased, cast forth, wiped out in a day!From your wrath is the world released, redeemed from your chains, men say.New Gods are crowned in the city; their flowers have broken your rods;They are merciful, clothed with pity, the young compassionate Gods.But for me their new device is barren, the days are bare;Things long past over suffice, and men forgotten that were.Time and the Gods are at strife; ye dwell in the midst thereof,Draining a little life from the barren breasts of love.I say to you, cease, take rest; yea, I say to you all, be at peace,Till the bitter milk of her breast and the barren bosom shall cease.Wilt thou yet take all, Galilean? but these thou shalt not take,The laurel, the palms and the pæan, the breasts of the nymphs in the brake;Breasts more soft than a dove's, that tremble with tenderer breath;And all the wings of the Loves, and all the joy before death;All the feet of the hours that sound as a single lyre,Dropped and deep in the flowers, with strings that flicker like fire.More than these wilt thou give, things fairer than all these things?Nay, for a little we live, and life hath mutable wings.A little while and we die; shall life not thrive as it may?For no man under the sky lives twice, outliving his day.And grief is a grievous thing, and a man hath enough of his tears:Why should he labour, and bring fresh grief to blacken his years?Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath;We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fullness of death.Laurel is green for a season, and love is sweet for a day;But love grows bitter with treason, and laurel outlives not May.Sleep, shall we sleep after all? for the world is not sweet in the end;For the old faiths loosen and fall, the new years ruin and rend.Fate is a sea without shore, and the soul is a rock that abides;But her ears are vexed with the roar and her face with the foam of the tides.O lips that the live blood faints in, the leavings of racks and rods!O ghastly glories of saints, dead limbs of gibbeted Gods!Though all men abase them before you in spirit, and all knees bend,I kneel not neither adore you, but standing, look to the end.All delicate days and pleasant, all spirits and sorrows are castFar out with the foam of the present that sweeps to the surf of the past:Where beyond the extreme sea-wall, and between the remote sea-gates,Waste water washes, and tall ships founder, and deep death waits:Where, mighty with deepening sides, clad about with the seas as with wings,And impelled of invisible tides, and fulfilled of unspeakable things,White-eyed and poisonous-finned, shark-toothed and serpentine-curled,Rolls, under the whitening wind of the future, the wave of the world.The depths stand naked in sunder behind it, the storms flee away;In the hollow before it the thunder is taken and snared as a prey;In its sides is the north-wind bound; and its salt is of all men's tears;With light of ruin, and sound of changes, and pulse of years:With travail of day after day, and with trouble of hour upon hour;And bitter as blood is the spray; and the crests are as fangs that devour:And its vapour and storm of its steam as the sighing of spirits to be;And its noise as the noise in a dream; and its depth as the roots of the sea:And the height of its heads as the height of the utmost stars of the air:And the ends of the earth at the might thereof tremble, and time is made bare.Will ye bridle the deep sea with reins, will ye chasten the high sea with rods?Will ye take her to chain her with chains, who is older than all ye Gods?All ye as a wind shall go by, as a fire shall ye pass and be past;Ye are Gods, and behold, ye shall die, and the waves be upon you at last.In the darkness of time, in the deeps of the years, in the changes of things,Ye shall sleep as a slain man sleeps, and the world shall forget you for kings.Though the feet of thine high priests tread where thy lords and our forefathers trod,Though these that were Gods are dead, and thou being dead art a God,Though before thee the throned Cytherean be fallen, and hidden her head,Yet thy kingdom shall pass, Galilean, thy dead shall go down to thee dead.Of the maiden thy mother men sing as a goddess with grace clad around;Thou art throned where another was king; where another was queen she is crowned.Yea, once we had sight of another: but now she is queen, say these.Not as thine, not as thine was our mother, a blossom of flowering seas,Clothed round with the world's desire as with raiment, and fair as the foam,And fleeter than kindled fire, and a goddess, and mother of Rome.For thine came pale and a maiden, and sister to sorrow; but ours,Her deep hair heavily laden with odour and colour of flowers,White rose of the rose-white water, a silver splendour, a flame,Bent down unto us that besought her, and earth grew sweet with her name.For thine came weeping, a slave among slaves, and rejected; but sheCame flushed from the full-flushed wave, and imperial, her foot on the sea.And the wonderful waters knew her, the winds and the viewless ways,And the roses grew rosier, and bluer the sea-blue stream of the bays.Ye are fallen, our lords, by what token? we wist that ye should not fall.Ye were all so fair that are broken; and one more fair than ye all.But I turn to her still, having seen she shall surely abide in the end;Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and befriend.O daughter of earth, of my mother, her crown and blossom of birth,I am also, I also, thy brother; I go as I came unto earth.In the night where thine eyes are as moons are in heaven, the night where thou art,Where the silence is more than all tunes, where sleep overflows from the heart,Where the poppies are sweet as the rose in our world, and the red rose is white,And the wind falls faint as it blows with the fume of the flowers of the night,And the murmur of spirits that sleep in the shadow of Gods from afarGrows dim in thine ears and deep as the deep dim soul of a star,In the sweet low light of thy face, under heavens untrod by the sun,Let my soul with their souls find place, and forget what is done and undone.Thou art more than the Gods who number the days of our temporal breath:For these give labour and slumber; but thou, Proserpina, death.Therefore now at thy feet I abide for a season in silence. I knowI shall die as my fathers died, and sleep as they sleep; even so.For the glass of the years is brittle wherein we gaze for a span;A little soul for a little bears up this corpse which is man.[2]So long I endure, no longer; and laugh not again, neither weep.For there is no God found stronger than death; and death is a sleep.
I have lived long enough, having seen one thing, that love hath an end;Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and befriend.Thou art more than the day or the morrow, the seasons that laugh or that weep;For these give joy and sorrow; but thou, Proserpina, sleep.Sweet is the treading of wine, and sweet the feet of the dove;But a goodlier gift is thine than foam of the grapes or love.Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and harpstring of gold,A bitter God to follow, a beautiful God to behold?I am sick of singing: the bays burn deep and chafe: I am fainTo rest a little from praise and grievous pleasure and pain.For the Gods we know not of, who give us our daily breath,We know they are cruel as love or life, and lovely as death.O Gods dethroned and deceased, cast forth, wiped out in a day!From your wrath is the world released, redeemed from your chains, men say.New Gods are crowned in the city; their flowers have broken your rods;They are merciful, clothed with pity, the young compassionate Gods.But for me their new device is barren, the days are bare;Things long past over suffice, and men forgotten that were.Time and the Gods are at strife; ye dwell in the midst thereof,Draining a little life from the barren breasts of love.I say to you, cease, take rest; yea, I say to you all, be at peace,Till the bitter milk of her breast and the barren bosom shall cease.Wilt thou yet take all, Galilean? but these thou shalt not take,The laurel, the palms and the pæan, the breasts of the nymphs in the brake;Breasts more soft than a dove's, that tremble with tenderer breath;And all the wings of the Loves, and all the joy before death;All the feet of the hours that sound as a single lyre,Dropped and deep in the flowers, with strings that flicker like fire.More than these wilt thou give, things fairer than all these things?Nay, for a little we live, and life hath mutable wings.A little while and we die; shall life not thrive as it may?For no man under the sky lives twice, outliving his day.And grief is a grievous thing, and a man hath enough of his tears:Why should he labour, and bring fresh grief to blacken his years?Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath;We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fullness of death.Laurel is green for a season, and love is sweet for a day;But love grows bitter with treason, and laurel outlives not May.Sleep, shall we sleep after all? for the world is not sweet in the end;For the old faiths loosen and fall, the new years ruin and rend.Fate is a sea without shore, and the soul is a rock that abides;But her ears are vexed with the roar and her face with the foam of the tides.O lips that the live blood faints in, the leavings of racks and rods!O ghastly glories of saints, dead limbs of gibbeted Gods!Though all men abase them before you in spirit, and all knees bend,I kneel not neither adore you, but standing, look to the end.All delicate days and pleasant, all spirits and sorrows are castFar out with the foam of the present that sweeps to the surf of the past:Where beyond the extreme sea-wall, and between the remote sea-gates,Waste water washes, and tall ships founder, and deep death waits:Where, mighty with deepening sides, clad about with the seas as with wings,And impelled of invisible tides, and fulfilled of unspeakable things,White-eyed and poisonous-finned, shark-toothed and serpentine-curled,Rolls, under the whitening wind of the future, the wave of the world.The depths stand naked in sunder behind it, the storms flee away;In the hollow before it the thunder is taken and snared as a prey;In its sides is the north-wind bound; and its salt is of all men's tears;With light of ruin, and sound of changes, and pulse of years:With travail of day after day, and with trouble of hour upon hour;And bitter as blood is the spray; and the crests are as fangs that devour:And its vapour and storm of its steam as the sighing of spirits to be;And its noise as the noise in a dream; and its depth as the roots of the sea:And the height of its heads as the height of the utmost stars of the air:And the ends of the earth at the might thereof tremble, and time is made bare.Will ye bridle the deep sea with reins, will ye chasten the high sea with rods?Will ye take her to chain her with chains, who is older than all ye Gods?All ye as a wind shall go by, as a fire shall ye pass and be past;Ye are Gods, and behold, ye shall die, and the waves be upon you at last.In the darkness of time, in the deeps of the years, in the changes of things,Ye shall sleep as a slain man sleeps, and the world shall forget you for kings.Though the feet of thine high priests tread where thy lords and our forefathers trod,Though these that were Gods are dead, and thou being dead art a God,Though before thee the throned Cytherean be fallen, and hidden her head,Yet thy kingdom shall pass, Galilean, thy dead shall go down to thee dead.Of the maiden thy mother men sing as a goddess with grace clad around;Thou art throned where another was king; where another was queen she is crowned.Yea, once we had sight of another: but now she is queen, say these.Not as thine, not as thine was our mother, a blossom of flowering seas,Clothed round with the world's desire as with raiment, and fair as the foam,And fleeter than kindled fire, and a goddess, and mother of Rome.For thine came pale and a maiden, and sister to sorrow; but ours,Her deep hair heavily laden with odour and colour of flowers,White rose of the rose-white water, a silver splendour, a flame,Bent down unto us that besought her, and earth grew sweet with her name.For thine came weeping, a slave among slaves, and rejected; but sheCame flushed from the full-flushed wave, and imperial, her foot on the sea.And the wonderful waters knew her, the winds and the viewless ways,And the roses grew rosier, and bluer the sea-blue stream of the bays.Ye are fallen, our lords, by what token? we wist that ye should not fall.Ye were all so fair that are broken; and one more fair than ye all.But I turn to her still, having seen she shall surely abide in the end;Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and befriend.O daughter of earth, of my mother, her crown and blossom of birth,I am also, I also, thy brother; I go as I came unto earth.In the night where thine eyes are as moons are in heaven, the night where thou art,Where the silence is more than all tunes, where sleep overflows from the heart,Where the poppies are sweet as the rose in our world, and the red rose is white,And the wind falls faint as it blows with the fume of the flowers of the night,And the murmur of spirits that sleep in the shadow of Gods from afarGrows dim in thine ears and deep as the deep dim soul of a star,In the sweet low light of thy face, under heavens untrod by the sun,Let my soul with their souls find place, and forget what is done and undone.Thou art more than the Gods who number the days of our temporal breath:For these give labour and slumber; but thou, Proserpina, death.Therefore now at thy feet I abide for a season in silence. I knowI shall die as my fathers died, and sleep as they sleep; even so.For the glass of the years is brittle wherein we gaze for a span;A little soul for a little bears up this corpse which is man.[2]So long I endure, no longer; and laugh not again, neither weep.For there is no God found stronger than death; and death is a sleep.
There is an end of joy and sorrow;Peace all day long, all night, all morrow,But never a time to laugh or weep.The end is come of pleasant places,The end of tender words and faces,The end of all, the poppied sleep.No place for sound within their hearing,No room to hope, no time for fearing,No lips to laugh, no lids for tears.The old years have run out all their measure;No chance of pain, no chance of pleasure,No fragment of the broken years.Outside of all the worlds and ages,There where the fool is as the sage is,There where the slayer is clean of blood,No end, no passage, no beginning,There where the sinner leaves off sinning,There where the good man is not good.There is not one thing with another,But Evil saith to Good: My brother,My brother, I am one with thee:They shall not strive nor cry for ever:No man shall choose between them: neverShall this thing end and that thing be.Wind wherein seas and stars are shakenShall shake them, and they shall not waken;None that has lain down shall arise;The stones are sealed across their places;One shadow is shed on all their faces,One blindness cast on all their eyes.Sleep, is it sleep perchance that coversEach face, as each face were his lover's?Farewell; as men that sleep fare well.The grave's mouth laughs unto derisionDesire and dread and dream and vision,Delight of heaven and sorrow of hell.No soul shall tell nor lip shall numberThe names and tribes of you that slumber;No memory, no memorial."Thou knowest"—who shall say thou knowest?There is none highest and none lowest:An end, an end, an end of all.Good night, good sleep, good rest from sorrowTo these that shall not have good morrow;The gods be gentle to all these.Nay, if death be not, how shall they be?Nay, is there help in heaven? it may beAll things and lords of things shall cease.The stooped urn, filling, dips and flashes;The bronzèd brims are deep in ashes;The pale old lips of death are fed.Shall this dust gather flesh hereafter?Shall one shed tears or fall to laughter,At sight of all these poor old dead?Nay, as thou wilt; these know not of it;Thine eyes' strong weeping shall not profit,Thy laughter shall not give thee ease;Cry aloud, spare not, cease not crying,Sigh, till thou cleave thy sides with sighing,Thou shalt not raise up one of these.Burnt spices flash, and burnt wine hisses,The breathing flame's mouth curls and kissesThe small dried rows of frankincense;All round the sad red blossoms smoulder,Flowers coloured like the fire, but colder,In sign of sweet things taken hence;Yea, for their sake and in death's favourThings of sweet shape and of sweet savourWe yield them, spice and flower and wine;Yea, costlier things than wine or spices,Whereof none knoweth how great the price is,And fruit that comes not of the vine.From boy's pierced throat and girl's pierced bosomDrips, reddening round the blood-red blossom,The slow delicious bright soft blood,Bathing the spices and the pyre,Bathing the flowers and fallen fire,Bathing the blossom by the bud.Roses whose lips the flame has deadenedDrink till the lapping leaves are reddenedAnd warm wet inner petals weep;The flower whereof sick sleep gets leisure,Barren of balm and purple pleasure,Fumes with no native steam of sleep.Why will ye weep? what do ye weeping?For waking folk and people sleeping,And sands that fill and sands that fall,The days rose-red, the poppied hours,Blood, wine, and spice and fire and flowers,There is one end of one and all.Shall such an one lend love or borrow?Shall these be sorry for thy sorrow?Shall these give thanks for words or breath?Their hate is as their loving-kindness;The frontlet of their brows is blindness,The armlet of their arms is death.Lo, for no noise or light of thunderShall these grave-clothes be rent in sunder;He that hath taken, shall he give?He hath rent them: shall he bind together?He hath bound them: shall he break the tether?He hath slain them: shall he bid them live?A little sorrow, a little pleasure,Fate metes us from the dusty measureThat holds the date of all of us;We are born with travail and strong crying,And from the birth-day to the dyingThe likeness of our life is thus.One girds himself to serve another,Whose father was the dust, whose motherThe little dead red worm therein;They find no fruit of things they cherish;The goodness of a man shall perish,It shall be one thing with his sin.In deep wet ways by grey old gardensFed with sharp spring the sweet fruit hardens;They know not what fruits wane or grow;Red summer burns to the utmost ember;They know not, neither can remember,The old years and flowers they used to know.Ah, for their sakes, so trapped and taken,For theirs, forgotten and forsaken,Watch, sleep not, gird thyself with prayer.Nay, where the heart of wrath is broken,Where long love ends as a thing spoken,How shall thy crying enter there?Though the iron sides of the old world falter,The likeness of them shall not alterFor all the rumour of periods,The stars and seasons that come after,The tears of latter men, the laughterOf the old unalterable gods.Far up above the years and nations,The high gods, clothed and crowned with patience,Endure through days of deathlike date;They bear the witness of things hidden;Before their eyes all life stands chidden,As they before the eyes of Fate.Not for their love shall Fate retire,Nor they relent for our desire,Nor the graves open for their call.The end is more than joy and anguish,Than lives that laugh and lives that languish,The poppied sleep, the end of all.
There is an end of joy and sorrow;Peace all day long, all night, all morrow,But never a time to laugh or weep.The end is come of pleasant places,The end of tender words and faces,The end of all, the poppied sleep.
No place for sound within their hearing,No room to hope, no time for fearing,No lips to laugh, no lids for tears.The old years have run out all their measure;No chance of pain, no chance of pleasure,No fragment of the broken years.
Outside of all the worlds and ages,There where the fool is as the sage is,There where the slayer is clean of blood,No end, no passage, no beginning,There where the sinner leaves off sinning,There where the good man is not good.
There is not one thing with another,But Evil saith to Good: My brother,My brother, I am one with thee:They shall not strive nor cry for ever:No man shall choose between them: neverShall this thing end and that thing be.
Wind wherein seas and stars are shakenShall shake them, and they shall not waken;None that has lain down shall arise;The stones are sealed across their places;One shadow is shed on all their faces,One blindness cast on all their eyes.
Sleep, is it sleep perchance that coversEach face, as each face were his lover's?Farewell; as men that sleep fare well.The grave's mouth laughs unto derisionDesire and dread and dream and vision,Delight of heaven and sorrow of hell.
No soul shall tell nor lip shall numberThe names and tribes of you that slumber;No memory, no memorial."Thou knowest"—who shall say thou knowest?There is none highest and none lowest:An end, an end, an end of all.
Good night, good sleep, good rest from sorrowTo these that shall not have good morrow;The gods be gentle to all these.Nay, if death be not, how shall they be?Nay, is there help in heaven? it may beAll things and lords of things shall cease.
The stooped urn, filling, dips and flashes;The bronzèd brims are deep in ashes;The pale old lips of death are fed.Shall this dust gather flesh hereafter?Shall one shed tears or fall to laughter,At sight of all these poor old dead?
Nay, as thou wilt; these know not of it;Thine eyes' strong weeping shall not profit,Thy laughter shall not give thee ease;Cry aloud, spare not, cease not crying,Sigh, till thou cleave thy sides with sighing,Thou shalt not raise up one of these.
Burnt spices flash, and burnt wine hisses,The breathing flame's mouth curls and kissesThe small dried rows of frankincense;All round the sad red blossoms smoulder,Flowers coloured like the fire, but colder,In sign of sweet things taken hence;
Yea, for their sake and in death's favourThings of sweet shape and of sweet savourWe yield them, spice and flower and wine;Yea, costlier things than wine or spices,Whereof none knoweth how great the price is,And fruit that comes not of the vine.
From boy's pierced throat and girl's pierced bosomDrips, reddening round the blood-red blossom,The slow delicious bright soft blood,Bathing the spices and the pyre,Bathing the flowers and fallen fire,Bathing the blossom by the bud.
Roses whose lips the flame has deadenedDrink till the lapping leaves are reddenedAnd warm wet inner petals weep;The flower whereof sick sleep gets leisure,Barren of balm and purple pleasure,Fumes with no native steam of sleep.
Why will ye weep? what do ye weeping?For waking folk and people sleeping,And sands that fill and sands that fall,The days rose-red, the poppied hours,Blood, wine, and spice and fire and flowers,There is one end of one and all.
Shall such an one lend love or borrow?Shall these be sorry for thy sorrow?Shall these give thanks for words or breath?Their hate is as their loving-kindness;The frontlet of their brows is blindness,The armlet of their arms is death.
Lo, for no noise or light of thunderShall these grave-clothes be rent in sunder;He that hath taken, shall he give?He hath rent them: shall he bind together?He hath bound them: shall he break the tether?He hath slain them: shall he bid them live?
A little sorrow, a little pleasure,Fate metes us from the dusty measureThat holds the date of all of us;We are born with travail and strong crying,And from the birth-day to the dyingThe likeness of our life is thus.
One girds himself to serve another,Whose father was the dust, whose motherThe little dead red worm therein;They find no fruit of things they cherish;The goodness of a man shall perish,It shall be one thing with his sin.
In deep wet ways by grey old gardensFed with sharp spring the sweet fruit hardens;They know not what fruits wane or grow;Red summer burns to the utmost ember;They know not, neither can remember,The old years and flowers they used to know.
Ah, for their sakes, so trapped and taken,For theirs, forgotten and forsaken,Watch, sleep not, gird thyself with prayer.Nay, where the heart of wrath is broken,Where long love ends as a thing spoken,How shall thy crying enter there?
Though the iron sides of the old world falter,The likeness of them shall not alterFor all the rumour of periods,The stars and seasons that come after,The tears of latter men, the laughterOf the old unalterable gods.
Far up above the years and nations,The high gods, clothed and crowned with patience,Endure through days of deathlike date;They bear the witness of things hidden;Before their eyes all life stands chidden,As they before the eyes of Fate.
Not for their love shall Fate retire,Nor they relent for our desire,Nor the graves open for their call.The end is more than joy and anguish,Than lives that laugh and lives that languish,The poppied sleep, the end of all.
ILift up thy lips, turn round, look back for love,Blind love that comes by night and casts out rest;Of all things tired thy lips look weariest,Save the long smile that they are wearied of.Ah sweet, albeit no love be sweet enough,Choose of two loves and cleave unto the best;Two loves at either blossom of thy breastStrive until one be under and one above.Their breath is fire upon the amorous air,Fire in thine eyes and where thy lips suspire:And whosoever hath seen thee, being so fair,Two things turn all his life and blood to fire;A strong desire begot on great despair,A great despair cast out by strong desire.IIWhere between sleep and life some brief space is,With love like gold bound round about the head,Sex to sweet sex with lips and limbs is wed,Turning the fruitful feud of hers and hisTo the waste wedlock of a sterile kiss;Yet from them something like as fire is shedThat shall not be assuaged till death be dead,Though neither life nor sleep can find out this.Love made himself of flesh that perishethA pleasure-house for all the loves his kin;But on the one side sat a man like death,And on the other a woman sat like sin.So with veiled eyes and sobs between his breathLove turned himself and would not enter in.IIILove, is it love or sleep or shadow or lightThat lies between thine eyelids and thine eyes?Like a flower laid upon a flower it lies,Or like the night's dew laid upon the night.Love stands upon thy left hand and thy right,Yet by no sunset and by no moonriseShall make thee man and ease a woman's sighs,Or make thee woman for a man's delight.To what strange end hath some strange god made fairThe double blossom of two fruitless flowers?Hid love in all the folds of all thy hair,Fed thee on summers, watered thee with showers,Given all the gold that all the seasons wearTo thee that art a thing of barren hours?IVYea, love, I see; it is not love but fear.Nay, sweet, it is not fear but love, I know;Or wherefore should thy body's blossom blowSo sweetly, or thine eyelids leave so clearThy gracious eyes that never made a tear—Though for their love our tears like blood should flow,Though love and life and death should come and go,So dreadful, so desirable, so dear?Yea, sweet, I know; I saw in what swift wiseBeneath the woman's and the water's kissThy moist limbs melted into Salmacis,And the large light turned tender in thine eyes,And all thy boy's breath softened into sighs;But Love being blind, how should he know of this?Au Musée du Louvre, Mars 1863.
I
Lift up thy lips, turn round, look back for love,Blind love that comes by night and casts out rest;Of all things tired thy lips look weariest,Save the long smile that they are wearied of.Ah sweet, albeit no love be sweet enough,Choose of two loves and cleave unto the best;Two loves at either blossom of thy breastStrive until one be under and one above.Their breath is fire upon the amorous air,Fire in thine eyes and where thy lips suspire:And whosoever hath seen thee, being so fair,Two things turn all his life and blood to fire;A strong desire begot on great despair,A great despair cast out by strong desire.
II
Where between sleep and life some brief space is,With love like gold bound round about the head,Sex to sweet sex with lips and limbs is wed,Turning the fruitful feud of hers and hisTo the waste wedlock of a sterile kiss;Yet from them something like as fire is shedThat shall not be assuaged till death be dead,Though neither life nor sleep can find out this.Love made himself of flesh that perishethA pleasure-house for all the loves his kin;But on the one side sat a man like death,And on the other a woman sat like sin.So with veiled eyes and sobs between his breathLove turned himself and would not enter in.
III
Love, is it love or sleep or shadow or lightThat lies between thine eyelids and thine eyes?Like a flower laid upon a flower it lies,Or like the night's dew laid upon the night.Love stands upon thy left hand and thy right,Yet by no sunset and by no moonriseShall make thee man and ease a woman's sighs,Or make thee woman for a man's delight.To what strange end hath some strange god made fairThe double blossom of two fruitless flowers?Hid love in all the folds of all thy hair,Fed thee on summers, watered thee with showers,Given all the gold that all the seasons wearTo thee that art a thing of barren hours?
IV
Yea, love, I see; it is not love but fear.Nay, sweet, it is not fear but love, I know;Or wherefore should thy body's blossom blowSo sweetly, or thine eyelids leave so clearThy gracious eyes that never made a tear—Though for their love our tears like blood should flow,Though love and life and death should come and go,So dreadful, so desirable, so dear?Yea, sweet, I know; I saw in what swift wiseBeneath the woman's and the water's kissThy moist limbs melted into Salmacis,And the large light turned tender in thine eyes,And all thy boy's breath softened into sighs;But Love being blind, how should he know of this?
Au Musée du Louvre, Mars 1863.
O Love! what shall be said of thee?The son of grief begot by joy?Being sightless, wilt thou see?Being sexless, wilt thou beMaiden or boy?I dreamed of strange lips yesterdayAnd cheeks wherein the ambiguous bloodWas like a rose's—yea,A rose's when it layWithin the bud.What fields have bred thee, or what grovesConcealed thee, O mysterious flower,O double rose of Love's,With leaves that lure the dovesFrom bud to bower?I dare not kiss it, lest my lipPress harder than an indrawn breath,And all the sweet life slipForth, and the sweet leaves drip,Bloodlike, in death.O sole desire of my delight!O sole delight of my desire!Mine eyelids and eyesightFeed on thee day and nightLike lips of fire.Lean back thy throat of carven pearl,Let thy mouth murmur like the dove's;Say, Venus hath no girl,No front of female curl,Among her Loves.Thy sweet low bosom, thy close hair,Thy strait soft flanks and slenderer feet,Thy virginal strange air,Are these not over fairFor Love to greet?How should he greet thee? what new name,Fit to move all men's hearts, could moveThee, deaf to love or shame,Love's sister, by the sameMother as Love?Ah sweet, the maiden's mouth is cold,Her breast-blossoms are simply red,Her hair mere brown or gold,Fold over simple foldBinding her head.Thy mouth is made of fire and wine,Thy barren bosom takes my kissAnd turns my soul to thineAnd turns thy lip to mine,And mine it is.Thou hast a serpent in thine hair,In all the curls that close and cling;And ah, thy breast-flower!Ah love, thy mouth too fairTo kiss and sting!Cleave to me, love me, kiss mine eyes,Satiate thy lips with loving me;Nay, for thou shalt not rise;Lie still as Love that diesFor love of thee.Mine arms are close about thine head,My lips are fervent on thy face,And where my kiss hath fedThy flower-like blood leaps redTo the kissed place.O bitterness of things too sweet!O broken singing of the dove!Love's wings are over fleet,And like the panther's feetThe feet of Love.
O Love! what shall be said of thee?The son of grief begot by joy?Being sightless, wilt thou see?Being sexless, wilt thou beMaiden or boy?
I dreamed of strange lips yesterdayAnd cheeks wherein the ambiguous bloodWas like a rose's—yea,A rose's when it layWithin the bud.
What fields have bred thee, or what grovesConcealed thee, O mysterious flower,O double rose of Love's,With leaves that lure the dovesFrom bud to bower?
I dare not kiss it, lest my lipPress harder than an indrawn breath,And all the sweet life slipForth, and the sweet leaves drip,Bloodlike, in death.
O sole desire of my delight!O sole delight of my desire!Mine eyelids and eyesightFeed on thee day and nightLike lips of fire.
Lean back thy throat of carven pearl,Let thy mouth murmur like the dove's;Say, Venus hath no girl,No front of female curl,Among her Loves.
Thy sweet low bosom, thy close hair,Thy strait soft flanks and slenderer feet,Thy virginal strange air,Are these not over fairFor Love to greet?
How should he greet thee? what new name,Fit to move all men's hearts, could moveThee, deaf to love or shame,Love's sister, by the sameMother as Love?
Ah sweet, the maiden's mouth is cold,Her breast-blossoms are simply red,Her hair mere brown or gold,Fold over simple foldBinding her head.
Thy mouth is made of fire and wine,Thy barren bosom takes my kissAnd turns my soul to thineAnd turns thy lip to mine,And mine it is.
Thou hast a serpent in thine hair,In all the curls that close and cling;And ah, thy breast-flower!Ah love, thy mouth too fairTo kiss and sting!
Cleave to me, love me, kiss mine eyes,Satiate thy lips with loving me;Nay, for thou shalt not rise;Lie still as Love that diesFor love of thee.
Mine arms are close about thine head,My lips are fervent on thy face,And where my kiss hath fedThy flower-like blood leaps redTo the kissed place.
O bitterness of things too sweet!O broken singing of the dove!Love's wings are over fleet,And like the panther's feetThe feet of Love.
These many years since we began to be,What have the gods done with us? what with me,What with my love? they have shown me fates and fears,Harsh springs, and fountains bitterer than the sea,Grief a fixed star, and joy a vane that veers,These many years.With her, my love, with her have they done well?But who shall answer for her? who shall tellSweet things or sad, such things as no man hears?May no tears fall, if no tears ever fell,From eyes more dear to me than starriest spheresThese many years!But if tears ever touched, for any grief,Those eyelids folded like a white-rose leaf,Deep double shells wherethrough the eye-flower peers,Let them weep once more only, sweet and brief,Brief tears and bright, for one who gave her tearsThese many years.
These many years since we began to be,What have the gods done with us? what with me,What with my love? they have shown me fates and fears,Harsh springs, and fountains bitterer than the sea,Grief a fixed star, and joy a vane that veers,These many years.
With her, my love, with her have they done well?But who shall answer for her? who shall tellSweet things or sad, such things as no man hears?May no tears fall, if no tears ever fell,From eyes more dear to me than starriest spheresThese many years!
But if tears ever touched, for any grief,Those eyelids folded like a white-rose leaf,Deep double shells wherethrough the eye-flower peers,Let them weep once more only, sweet and brief,Brief tears and bright, for one who gave her tearsThese many years.
If you loved me ever so little,I could bear the bonds that gall,I could dream the bonds were brittle;You do not love me at all.O beautiful lips, O bosomMore white than the moon's and warm,A sterile, a ruinous blossomIs blown your way in a storm.As the lost white feverish limbsOf the Lesbian Sappho, adriftIn foam where the sea-weed swims,Swam loose for the streams to lift,My heart swims blind in a seaThat stuns me; swims to and fro,And gathers to windward and leeLamentation, and mourning, and woe.A broken, an emptied boat,Sea saps it, winds blow apart,Sick and adrift and afloat,The barren waif of a heart.Where, when the gods would be cruel,Do they go for a torture? wherePlant thorns, set pain like a jewel?Ah, not in the flesh, not there!The racks of earth and the rodsAre weak as foam on the sands;In the heart is the prey for gods,Who crucify hearts, not hands.Mere pangs corrode and consume,Dead when life dies in the brain;In the infinite spirit is roomFor the pulse of an infinite pain.I wish you were dead, my dear;I would give you, had I to giveSome death too bitter to fear;It is better to die than live.I wish you were stricken of thunderAnd burnt with a bright flame through,Consumed and cloven in sunder,I dead at your feet like you.If I could but know after all,I might cease to hunger and ache,Though your heart were ever so small,If it were not a stone or a snake.You are crueller, you that we love,Than hatred, hunger, or death;You have eyes and breasts like a dove,And you kill men's hearts with a breathAs plague in a poisonous cityInsults and exults on her dead,So you, when pallid for pityComes love, and fawns to be fed.As a tame beast writhes and wheedles,He fawns to be fed with wiles;You carve him a cross of needles,And whet them sharp as your smiles.He is patient of thorn and whip,He is dumb under axe or dart;You suck with a sleepy red lipThe wet red wounds in his heart.You thrill as his pulses dwindle,You brighten and warm as he bleeds,With insatiable eyes that kindleAnd insatiable mouth that feeds.Your hands nailed love to the tree,You stript him, scourged him with rods,And drowned him deep in the seaThat hides the dead and their gods.And for all this, die will he not;There is no man sees him but I;You came and went and forgot;I hope he will some day die.
If you loved me ever so little,I could bear the bonds that gall,I could dream the bonds were brittle;You do not love me at all.
O beautiful lips, O bosomMore white than the moon's and warm,A sterile, a ruinous blossomIs blown your way in a storm.
As the lost white feverish limbsOf the Lesbian Sappho, adriftIn foam where the sea-weed swims,Swam loose for the streams to lift,
My heart swims blind in a seaThat stuns me; swims to and fro,And gathers to windward and leeLamentation, and mourning, and woe.
A broken, an emptied boat,Sea saps it, winds blow apart,Sick and adrift and afloat,The barren waif of a heart.
Where, when the gods would be cruel,Do they go for a torture? wherePlant thorns, set pain like a jewel?Ah, not in the flesh, not there!
The racks of earth and the rodsAre weak as foam on the sands;In the heart is the prey for gods,Who crucify hearts, not hands.
Mere pangs corrode and consume,Dead when life dies in the brain;In the infinite spirit is roomFor the pulse of an infinite pain.
I wish you were dead, my dear;I would give you, had I to giveSome death too bitter to fear;It is better to die than live.
I wish you were stricken of thunderAnd burnt with a bright flame through,Consumed and cloven in sunder,I dead at your feet like you.
If I could but know after all,I might cease to hunger and ache,Though your heart were ever so small,If it were not a stone or a snake.
You are crueller, you that we love,Than hatred, hunger, or death;You have eyes and breasts like a dove,And you kill men's hearts with a breath
As plague in a poisonous cityInsults and exults on her dead,So you, when pallid for pityComes love, and fawns to be fed.
As a tame beast writhes and wheedles,He fawns to be fed with wiles;You carve him a cross of needles,And whet them sharp as your smiles.
He is patient of thorn and whip,He is dumb under axe or dart;You suck with a sleepy red lipThe wet red wounds in his heart.
You thrill as his pulses dwindle,You brighten and warm as he bleeds,With insatiable eyes that kindleAnd insatiable mouth that feeds.
Your hands nailed love to the tree,You stript him, scourged him with rods,And drowned him deep in the seaThat hides the dead and their gods.
And for all this, die will he not;There is no man sees him but I;You came and went and forgot;I hope he will some day die.
ἐν οὐρανῷ φαεννὰςκρύψω παρ' ὑμὶν αὐγὰς,μίας πρὸ νυκτὸς ἑπτὰ νύκτας ἕξετε, κ.τ.λ.Anth. Sac.
ἐν οὐρανῷ φαεννὰςκρύψω παρ' ὑμὶν αὐγὰς,μίας πρὸ νυκτὸς ἑπτὰ νύκτας ἕξετε, κ.τ.λ.Anth. Sac.
FIRST ANTIPHONEAll the bright lights of heavenI will make dark over thee;One night shall be as sevenThat its skirts may cover thee;I will send on thy strong men a sword,On thy remnant a rod;Ye shall know that I am the Lord,Saith the Lord God.SECOND ANTIPHONEAll the bright lights of heavenThou hast made dark over us;One night has been as sevenThat its skirt might cover us;Thou hast sent on our strong men a sword,On our remnant a rod;We know that thou art the Lord,O Lord our God.THIRD ANTIPHONEAs the tresses and wings of the windAre scattered and shaken,I will scatter all them that have sinned,There shall none be taken;As a sower that scattereth seed,So will I scatter them;As one breaketh and shattereth a reed,I will break and shatter them.FOURTH ANTIPHONEAs the wings and the locks of the windAre scattered and shaken,Thou hast scattered all them that have sinned,There was no man taken;As a sower that scattereth seed,So hast thou scattered us;As one breaketh and shattereth a reed,Thou hast broken and shattered us.FIFTH ANTIPHONEFrom all thy lovers that love theeI God will sunder thee;I will make darkness above thee,And thick darkness under thee;Before me goeth a light,Behind me a sword;Shall a remnant find grace in my sight?I am the Lord.SIXTH ANTIPHONEFrom all our lovers that love usThou God didst sunder us;Thou madest darkness above us,And thick darkness under us;Thou hast kindled thy wrath for a light,And made ready thy sword;Let a remnant find grace in thy sight,We beseech thee, O Lord.SEVENTH ANTIPHONEWilt thou bring fine gold for a paymentFor sins on this wise?For the glittering of raimentAnd the shining of eyes,For the painting of facesAnd the sundering of trust,For the sins of thine high placesAnd delight of thy lust?For your high things ye shall have lowly,Lamentation for song;For, behold, I God am holy,I the Lord am strong;Ye shall seek me and shall not reach meTill the wine-press be trod;In that hour ye shall turn and beseech me,Saith the Lord God.EIGHTH ANTIPHONENot with fine gold for a payment,But with coin of sighs,But with rending of raimentAnd with weeping of eyes,But with shame of stricken facesAnd with strewing of dust,For the sin of stately placesAnd lordship of lust;With voices of men made lowly,Made empty of song,O Lord God most holy,O God most strong,We reach out hands to reach theeEre the wine-press be trod;We beseech thee, O Lord, we beseech thee,O Lord our God.NINTH ANTIPHONEIn that hour thou shalt say to the night,Come down and cover us;To the cloud on thy left and thy right,Be thou spread over us;A snare shall be as thy mother,And a curse thy bride;Thou shalt put her away, and anotherShall lie by thy side.Thou shalt neither rise up by dayNor lie down by night;Would God it were dark! thou shalt say;Would God it were light!And the sight of thine eyes shall be madeAs the burning of fire;And thy soul shall be sorely afraidFor thy soul's desire.Ye whom your lords loved well,Putting silver and gold on you,The inevitable hellShall surely take hold on you;Your gold shall be for a token,Your staff for a rod;With the breaking of bands ye are broken,Saith the Lord God.TENTH ANTIPHONEIn our sorrow we said to the night,Fall down and cover us;To the darkness at left and at right,Be thou shed over us;We had breaking of spirit to motherAnd cursing to bride;And one was slain, and anotherStood up at our side.We could not arise by day,Nor lie down by night;Thy sword was sharp in our way,Thy word in our sight;The delight of our eyelids was madeAs the burning of fire;And our souls became sorely afraidFor our soul's desire.We whom the world loved well,Laying silver and gold on us,The kingdom of death and of hellRiseth up to take hold on us;Our gold is turned to a token,Our staff to a rod;Yet shalt thou bind them up that were broken,O Lord our God.
FIRST ANTIPHONE
All the bright lights of heavenI will make dark over thee;One night shall be as sevenThat its skirts may cover thee;I will send on thy strong men a sword,On thy remnant a rod;Ye shall know that I am the Lord,Saith the Lord God.
SECOND ANTIPHONE
All the bright lights of heavenThou hast made dark over us;One night has been as sevenThat its skirt might cover us;Thou hast sent on our strong men a sword,On our remnant a rod;We know that thou art the Lord,O Lord our God.
THIRD ANTIPHONE
As the tresses and wings of the windAre scattered and shaken,I will scatter all them that have sinned,There shall none be taken;As a sower that scattereth seed,So will I scatter them;As one breaketh and shattereth a reed,I will break and shatter them.
FOURTH ANTIPHONE
As the wings and the locks of the windAre scattered and shaken,Thou hast scattered all them that have sinned,There was no man taken;As a sower that scattereth seed,So hast thou scattered us;As one breaketh and shattereth a reed,Thou hast broken and shattered us.
FIFTH ANTIPHONE
From all thy lovers that love theeI God will sunder thee;I will make darkness above thee,And thick darkness under thee;Before me goeth a light,Behind me a sword;Shall a remnant find grace in my sight?I am the Lord.
SIXTH ANTIPHONE
From all our lovers that love usThou God didst sunder us;Thou madest darkness above us,And thick darkness under us;Thou hast kindled thy wrath for a light,And made ready thy sword;Let a remnant find grace in thy sight,We beseech thee, O Lord.
SEVENTH ANTIPHONE
Wilt thou bring fine gold for a paymentFor sins on this wise?For the glittering of raimentAnd the shining of eyes,For the painting of facesAnd the sundering of trust,For the sins of thine high placesAnd delight of thy lust?
For your high things ye shall have lowly,Lamentation for song;For, behold, I God am holy,I the Lord am strong;Ye shall seek me and shall not reach meTill the wine-press be trod;In that hour ye shall turn and beseech me,Saith the Lord God.
EIGHTH ANTIPHONE
Not with fine gold for a payment,But with coin of sighs,But with rending of raimentAnd with weeping of eyes,But with shame of stricken facesAnd with strewing of dust,For the sin of stately placesAnd lordship of lust;
With voices of men made lowly,Made empty of song,O Lord God most holy,O God most strong,We reach out hands to reach theeEre the wine-press be trod;We beseech thee, O Lord, we beseech thee,O Lord our God.
NINTH ANTIPHONE
In that hour thou shalt say to the night,Come down and cover us;To the cloud on thy left and thy right,Be thou spread over us;A snare shall be as thy mother,And a curse thy bride;Thou shalt put her away, and anotherShall lie by thy side.
Thou shalt neither rise up by dayNor lie down by night;Would God it were dark! thou shalt say;Would God it were light!And the sight of thine eyes shall be madeAs the burning of fire;And thy soul shall be sorely afraidFor thy soul's desire.
Ye whom your lords loved well,Putting silver and gold on you,The inevitable hellShall surely take hold on you;Your gold shall be for a token,Your staff for a rod;With the breaking of bands ye are broken,Saith the Lord God.
TENTH ANTIPHONE
In our sorrow we said to the night,Fall down and cover us;To the darkness at left and at right,Be thou shed over us;We had breaking of spirit to motherAnd cursing to bride;And one was slain, and anotherStood up at our side.
We could not arise by day,Nor lie down by night;Thy sword was sharp in our way,Thy word in our sight;The delight of our eyelids was madeAs the burning of fire;And our souls became sorely afraidFor our soul's desire.
We whom the world loved well,Laying silver and gold on us,The kingdom of death and of hellRiseth up to take hold on us;Our gold is turned to a token,Our staff to a rod;Yet shalt thou bind them up that were broken,O Lord our God.
IWho hath known the ways of timeOr trodden behind his feet?There is no such man among men.For chance overcomes him, or crimeChanges; for all things sweetIn time wax bitter again.Who shall give sorrow enough,Or who the abundance of tears?Mine eyes are heavy with loveAnd a sword gone thorough mine ears,A sound like a sword and fire,For pity, for great desire;Who shall ensure me thereof,Lest I die, being full of my fears?Who hath known the ways and the wrath,The sleepless spirit, the rootAnd blossom of evil will,The divine device of a god?Who shall behold it or hath?The twice-tongued prophets are mute,The many speakers are still;No foot has travelled or trod,No hand has meted, his path.Man's fate is a blood-red fruit,And the mighty gods have their fillAnd relax not the rein, or the rod.Ye were mighty in heart from of old,Ye slew with the spear, and are slain.Keen after heat is the cold,Sore after summer is rain,And melteth man to the bone.As water he weareth away,As a flower, as an hour in a day,Fallen from laughter to moan.But my spirit is shaken with fearLest an evil thing begin,New-born, a spear for a spear,And one for another sin.Or ever our tears began,It was known from of old and said;One law for a living man,And another law for the dead.For these are fearful and sad,Vain, and things without breath;While he lives let a man be glad,For none hath joy of his death.IIWho hath known the pain, the old pain of earth,Or all the travail of the sea,The many ways and waves, the birthFruitless, the labour nothing worth?Who hath known, who knoweth, O gods? not we.There is none shall say he hath seen,There is none he hath known.Though he saith, Lo, a lord have I been,I have reaped and sown;I have seen the desire of mine eyes,The beginning of love,The season of kisses and sighsAnd the end thereof.I have known the ways of the sea,All the perilous ways,Strange winds have spoken with me,And the tongues of strange days.I have hewn the pine for ships;Where steeds run arow,I have seen from their bridled lipsFoam blown as the snow.With snapping of chariot-polesAnd with straining of oarsI have grazed in the race the goals,In the storm the shores;As a greave is cleft with an arrowAt the joint of the knee,I have cleft through the sea-straits narrowTo the heart of the sea.When air was smitten in sunderI have watched on highThe ways of the stars and the thunderIn the night of the sky;Where the dark brings forth light as a flower,As from lips that dissever;One abideth the space of an hour,One endureth for ever.Lo, what hath he seen or known,Of the way and the waveUnbeholden, unsailed on, unsown,From the breast to the grave?Or ever the stars were made, or skies,Grief was born, and the kinless night,Mother of gods without form or name.And light is born out of heaven and dies,And one day knows not another's light,But night is one, and her shape the same.But dumb the goddesses undergroundWait, and we hear not on earth if their feetRise, and the night wax loud with their wings;Dumb, without word or shadow of sound;And sift in scales and winnow as wheatMen's souls, and sorrow of manifold things.IIINor less of grief than oursThe gods wrought long agoTo bruise men one by one;But with the incessant hoursFresh grief and greener woeSpring, as the sudden sunYear after year makes flowers;And these die down and grow,And the next year lacks none.As these men sleep, have sleptThe old heroes in time fled,No dream-divided sleep;And holier eyes have weptThan ours, when on her deadGods have seen Thetis weep,With heavenly hair far-sweptBack, heavenly hands outspreadRound what she could not keep,Could not one day withhold,One night; and like as theseWhite ashes of no weight,Held not his urn the coldAshes of Heracles?For all things born one gateOpens, no gate of gold;Opens; and no man seesBeyond the gods and fate.
I
Who hath known the ways of timeOr trodden behind his feet?There is no such man among men.For chance overcomes him, or crimeChanges; for all things sweetIn time wax bitter again.Who shall give sorrow enough,Or who the abundance of tears?Mine eyes are heavy with loveAnd a sword gone thorough mine ears,A sound like a sword and fire,For pity, for great desire;Who shall ensure me thereof,Lest I die, being full of my fears?
Who hath known the ways and the wrath,The sleepless spirit, the rootAnd blossom of evil will,The divine device of a god?Who shall behold it or hath?The twice-tongued prophets are mute,The many speakers are still;No foot has travelled or trod,No hand has meted, his path.Man's fate is a blood-red fruit,And the mighty gods have their fillAnd relax not the rein, or the rod.
Ye were mighty in heart from of old,Ye slew with the spear, and are slain.Keen after heat is the cold,Sore after summer is rain,And melteth man to the bone.As water he weareth away,As a flower, as an hour in a day,Fallen from laughter to moan.But my spirit is shaken with fearLest an evil thing begin,New-born, a spear for a spear,And one for another sin.Or ever our tears began,It was known from of old and said;One law for a living man,And another law for the dead.For these are fearful and sad,Vain, and things without breath;While he lives let a man be glad,For none hath joy of his death.
II
Who hath known the pain, the old pain of earth,Or all the travail of the sea,The many ways and waves, the birthFruitless, the labour nothing worth?Who hath known, who knoweth, O gods? not we.There is none shall say he hath seen,There is none he hath known.Though he saith, Lo, a lord have I been,I have reaped and sown;I have seen the desire of mine eyes,The beginning of love,The season of kisses and sighsAnd the end thereof.I have known the ways of the sea,All the perilous ways,Strange winds have spoken with me,And the tongues of strange days.I have hewn the pine for ships;Where steeds run arow,I have seen from their bridled lipsFoam blown as the snow.With snapping of chariot-polesAnd with straining of oarsI have grazed in the race the goals,In the storm the shores;As a greave is cleft with an arrowAt the joint of the knee,I have cleft through the sea-straits narrowTo the heart of the sea.When air was smitten in sunderI have watched on highThe ways of the stars and the thunderIn the night of the sky;Where the dark brings forth light as a flower,As from lips that dissever;One abideth the space of an hour,One endureth for ever.Lo, what hath he seen or known,Of the way and the waveUnbeholden, unsailed on, unsown,From the breast to the grave?
Or ever the stars were made, or skies,Grief was born, and the kinless night,Mother of gods without form or name.And light is born out of heaven and dies,And one day knows not another's light,But night is one, and her shape the same.
But dumb the goddesses undergroundWait, and we hear not on earth if their feetRise, and the night wax loud with their wings;Dumb, without word or shadow of sound;And sift in scales and winnow as wheatMen's souls, and sorrow of manifold things.
III
Nor less of grief than oursThe gods wrought long agoTo bruise men one by one;But with the incessant hoursFresh grief and greener woeSpring, as the sudden sunYear after year makes flowers;And these die down and grow,And the next year lacks none.
As these men sleep, have sleptThe old heroes in time fled,No dream-divided sleep;And holier eyes have weptThan ours, when on her deadGods have seen Thetis weep,With heavenly hair far-sweptBack, heavenly hands outspreadRound what she could not keep,
Could not one day withhold,One night; and like as theseWhite ashes of no weight,Held not his urn the coldAshes of Heracles?For all things born one gateOpens, no gate of gold;Opens; and no man seesBeyond the gods and fate.