Though but one god is left in the city,
shall we turn to his treacherous feet,
though but one god is left in the city,
can he lure us
with his clamour and shout,
can he snare our hearts in his net,
can he blind us
with the light of his lance?
Could he snare our spirit and flesh,
he would cast it in irons to lie
and rot in the sodden grass,
and we know his glamour is dross,
we know him in a blackened light,
and his beauty withered and spent
beside one young life that is lost.
5
Though not one of the city turned,
not one girl but to glance
with contempt toward us
that our hearts were so faint
with despair and doubt,
contempt for us that our lips
could not sing to the god of the lance —
Though not one of the city turned
as we searched through the city streets,
though the maidens gathered their veils
and the women their robes
as we passed:-
Though not one of the city turned
as we paused at the city gate,
a few old men rose up
with eyes no fear or contempt
could harden — with lips worn frail
with no words of hate.
A few old men rose up
with a few sad women to greet and to hail us,
a few lads crept to welcome
and comfort us, their white brows
set with hope
as light circles an olive-branch.
6
With these we will cry to another,
with these we will stand apart
to lure some god to our city,
to hail him:
return from your brake,
your copse or your forest haunt.
O spirit still left to our city,
we call to your wooded haunt,
we cry:
O daemon of grasses,
O spirit of simples and roots,
O gods of the plants of the earth —
O god of the simples and grasses,
we cry to you now from our hearts,
O heal us—bring balm for our sickness,
return and soothe us with bark
and hemlock and feverwort.
O god of the power to strike out
memory of terror past,
bring branch of heal-all and tufts,
of the sweet and the bitter grass,
bring shaft and flower of the reeds
and cresses and meadow plants.
Return—look again on our city,
though the people cry through the streets,
though they hail another,
have pity — return to our gates,
with a love as great as theirs,
we entreat you
for our city’s sake.
Amaranth
I
Am I blind alas,
am I blind,
I too have followed
her path.
I too have bent at her feet.
I too have wakened to pluck
amaranth in the straight shaft,
amaranth purple in the cup,
scorched at the edge to white.
Am I blind?
am I the less ready for her sacrifice?
am I less eager to give
what she asks,
she the shameless and radiant?
Am I quite lost,
I towering above you and her glance,
walking with swifter pace,
with clearer sight,
with intensity
beside which you two
are as spent ash?
Nay I give back to my goddess the gift
she tendered me in a moment
of great bounty.
I return it. I lay it again
on the white slab of her house,
the beauty she cast out
one moment, careless.
Nor do I cry out:
“why did I stoop?
why did I turn aside
one moment from the rocks
marking the sea-path?
Andromeda, shameless and radiant,
have pity, turn, answer us. ”
Ah no—though I stumble toward
her altar-step,
though my flesh is scorched and rent,
shattered, cut apart,
and slashed open;
though my heels press my own wet life
black, dark to purple,
on the smooth rose-streaked
threshold of her pavement.
II
Am I blind, alas, deaf too,
that my ears lost all this?
Nay, O my lover, Atthis:
I tell you this:
I was not asleep.
I did not lie asleep on those hot rocks
while you waited.
I was not unaware when I glanced
out toward sea,
watching the purple ships.
I was not blind when I turned.
I was not indifferent when I strayed aside
or loitered as we three went,
or seemed to turn a moment from the path
for that same amaranth.
I was not dull and dead when I fell
back on our couch at night.
I was not indifferent though I turned
and lay quiet.
I was not dead in my sleep.
III
Lady of all beauty,
I give you this:
say I have offered but small sacrifice,
say I am unworthy your touch,
but say not, I turned to some cold, calm god,
silent, pitiful, in preference.
Lady of all beauty,
I give you this:
say not, I have deserted your altar-steps,
that the fire on your white hearth
was too great,
that I fell back at your first glance.
Lady, radiant and shameless,
I have brought small wreaths,
they were a child’s gift.
I have offered you white myrrh-leaf
and sweet lentisk.
I have laid rose-petals
and white rock-rose from the beach.
But I give now
a greater,
I give life and spirit with this,
I render a grace
no one has dared to speak
at your carved altar-step,
lest men point him out,
slave, callous to your art,
I dare more than the singer
offering her lute,
the girl her stained veils,
the woman her swathes of birth,
the older woman her pencils of chalk
and mirror and unguent box.
I offer more than the lad,
singing at your steps,
praising himself mirrored in his friend’s face,
more than any girl,
I offer you this,
(grant only strength
that I withdraw not my gift)
I give you my praise for this:
the love of my lover for his mistress.
IV
Let him go forth radiant,
let life rise in his young breast,
life is radiant,
life is made for beautiful love
and strange ecstasy,
strait, searing body and limbs,
tearing limbs and body from life;
life is his if he ask,
life is his if he take it,
then let him take beauty
as his right.
Take beauty, wander apart
in the tree-shadows,
wander under wind-bowed sheaths
of golden fir-boughs,
go far, far from here
in your happiness,
take beauty for that is her wish:
Her wish,
the radiant and shameless.
V
But I,
how I hate you for this,
how I despise and hate,
was my beauty so slight a gift,
so soon, so soon forgot?
I hate you for this,
and now that your fault be less,
I would cry, turn back,
lest she the shameless and radiant
slay you for neglect.
Neglect of the finest beauty upon earth
my limbs, my body and feet,
beauty that men gasp
wondering that life
could rest in so burnt a face,
so scarred with her touch,
so fire-eaten, so intense.
Turn, for I love you yet,
though you are not worthy of my love,
though you are not equal to it.
Turn back;
true I have glanced out
toward the purple ships
with seeming indifference.
I have fallen from the high grace
of the goddess,
for long days
I have been dulled with this grief,
but turn
before death strike,
for the goddess speaks:
She too is of the deathless,
she too will wander in my palaces
where all beauty is peace.
She too is of my host
that gather in groups or singly wait
by some altar apart;
she too is my poet.
Turn if you will
from her path,
turn if you must from her feet,
turn away, silent,
find rest if you wish:
find quiet
where the fir-trees
press, as you
swaying lightly above earth.
Turn if you will from her path
for one moment seek
a lesser beauty
and a lesser grace,
but you will find
no peace in the end
save in her presence.
Eros
I
Where is he taking us
now that he has turned back?
Where will this take us,
this fever,
spreading into light?
Nothing we have ever felt,
nothing we have dreamt,
or conjured in the night
or fashioned in loneliness,
can equal this.
Where is he taking us,
Eros,
now that he has turned back?
II
My mouth is wet with your life,
my eyes blinded with your face,
a heart itself which feels
the intimate music.
My mind is caught,
dimmed with it,
(where is love taking us?)
my lips are wet with your life.
In my body were pearls cast,
shot with Ionian tints, purple,
vivid through the white.
III
Keep love and he wings
with his bow,
up, mocking us,
keep love and he taunts us
and escapes.
Keep love and he sways apart
in another world,
outdistancing us.
Keep love and he mocks,
ah, bitter and sweet,
your sweetness is more cruel
than your hurt.
Honey and salt,
fire burst from the rocks
to meet fire
spilt from Hesperus.
Fire darted aloft and met fire,
and in that moment
love entered us.
IV
Could Eros be kept,
he was prisoned long since
and sick with imprisonment,
could Eros be kept,
others would have taken him
and crushed out his life.
Could Eros be kept,
we had sinned against the great god,
we too might have prisoned him outright.
Could Eros be kept,
nay, thank him and the bright goddess
that he left us.
V
Ah love is bitter and sweet,
but which is more sweet
the bitterness or the sweetness,
none has spoken it.
Love is bitter,
but can salt taint sea-flowers,
grief, happiness?
Is it bitter to give back
love to your lover if he crave it?
Is it bitter to give back
love to your lover if he wish it
for a new favourite,
who can say,
or is it sweet?
Is it sweet to possess utterly,
or is it bitter,
bitter as ash?
VI
I had thought myself frail,
a petal
with light equal
on leaf and under-leaf.
I had thought myself frail;
a lamp,
shell, ivory or crust of pearl,
about to fall shattered,
with flame spent.
I cried:
“I must perish,
I am deserted in this darkness,
an outcast, desperate,”
such fire rent me with Hesperus,
Then the day broke.
VII
What need of a lamp
when day lightens us,
what need to bind love
when love stands
with such radiant wings over us?
What need yet to sing love,
love must first shatter us.
Envy
I
I envy you your chance of death,
how I envy you this.
I am more covetous of him
even than of your glance,
I wish more from his presence
though he torture me in a grasp
terrible, intense.
Though he clasp me in an embrace
that is set against my will,
and rack me with his measure,
effortless yet full of strength,
and slay me
in that most horrible contest,
still, how I envy you your chance.
Though he pierce me with his lust,
iron, fever and dust,
though beauty is slain
when I perish,
I envy you death.
What is beauty to me?
has she not slain me enough,
have I not cried in agony of love,
birth, hate,
in pride crushed?
What is left after this?
what can death loose in me
after your embrace?
your touch,
your limbs are more terrible
to do me hurt.
What can death mar in me
that you have not?
II
What can death send me
that you have not?
You gathered violets,
you spoke:
“your hair is not less black
nor less fragrant,
nor in your eyes is less light,
your hair is not less sweet
with purple in the lift of locks;”
why were those slight words
and the violets you gathered
of such worth?
How I envy you death;
what could death bring,
more black, more set with sparks
to slay, to affright,
than the memory of those first violets,
the chance lift of your voice,
the chance blinding frenzy
as you bent?
III
Could I have known
you were more male than the sun-god,
more hot, more intense,
could I have known?
for your glance all-enfolding,
sympathetic, was selfless
as a girl’s glance.
Could I have known?
I whose heart,
being rent, cared nothing,
was unspeakably indifferent.
IV
So the goddess has slain me
for your chance smile
and my scarf unfolding
as you stooped to it,
so she trapped me,
for the upward sweep of your arm,
as you lifted the veil,
was the gesture of a tall girl
and your smile was as selfless.
Could I have known?
nay, spare pity,
though I break,
crushed under the goddess’ hate,
though I fall beaten at last,
so high have I thrust my glance
up into her presence.
Do not pity me, spare that,
but how I envy you
your chance of death.
Eurydice
I
So you have swept me back,
I who could have walked with the live souls
above the earth,
I who could have slept among the live flowers
at last;
so for your arrogance
and your ruthlessness
I am swept back
where dead lichens drip
dead cinders upon moss of ash;
so for your arrogance
I am broken at last,
I who had lived unconscious,
who was almost forgot;
if you had let me wait
I had grown from listlessness
into peace,
if you had let me rest with the dead,
I had forgot you
and the past.
II
Here only flame upon flame
and black among the red sparks,
streaks of black and light
grown colourless;
why did you turn back,
that hell should be reinhabited
of myself thus
swept into nothingness?
why did you turn?
why did you glance back?
why did you hesitate for that moment?
why did you bend your face