3
Lady of all beauty,
I give you this:
say I have offered small sacrifice,
say I am unworthy your touch,
but say not:
“she turned to some cold, calm god,
silent, pitiful, in preference.”
Lady of all beauty,
I give you this:
say not:
“she deserted my altar-step,
the fire on my white hearth
was too great,
she fell back at my first glance.”
Lady, radiant and shameless,
I have brought small wreaths,
(they were a child’s gift,)
I have offered myrrh-leaf,
crisp lentisk,
I have laid rose-petal
and white rock-rose from the beach.
But I give now a greater,
I give life and spirit with this.
I render a grace
no one has dared to speak,
lest men at your altar greet him
as slave, callous to your art;
I dare more than the singer
offering her lute,
the girl her stained veils,
the woman her swathes of birth,
or pencil and chalk,
mirror and unguent box.
I offer more than the lad
singing at your steps,
praise of himself,
his mirror his friend’s face,
more than any girl,
I offer you this:
(grant only strength
that I withdraw not my gift,)
I give you my praise and this:
the love of my lover
for his mistress.
Telesila
IN Argos—that statue of her;
at her feet the scroll of her
love-poetry, in her hand a helmet.
WAR is a fevered god
who takes alike
maiden and king and clod,
and yet another one,
(ah withering peril!)
deprives alike,
with equal skill,
alike indifferently,
hoar spearsman of his shaft,
wan maiden of her zone,
even he,
Love who is great War’s
very over-lord.
War bent
and kissed the forehead,
yet Love swift,
planted on chin
and tenderest cyclamen lift
of fragrant mouth,
fevered and honeyed breath,
breathing o’er and o’er
those tendrils of her hair,
soft kisses
like bright flowers.
Love took
and laid the sweet,
(being extravagant,)
on lip and chin and cheek,
but ah he failed
even he,
before the luminous eyes
that dart
no suave appeal,
alas, impelling me
to brave incontinent,
grave Pallas’ high command.
And yet the mouth!
ah Love ingratiate,
how was it you,
so poignant, swift and sure,
could not have taken all
and left me free,
free to desert the Argives,
let them burn,
free yet to turn
and let the city fall:
yea, let high War
take all his vengeful way,
for what am I?
I cannot save nor stay
the city’s fall.
War is a fevered god,
(yet who has writ as she
the power of Love?)
War bent and kissed the forehead,
that bright brow,
ignored the chin
and the sweet mouth,
for that and the low laugh were his,
Eros ingratiate,
who sadly missed
in all the kisses count,
those eyebrows
and swart eyes,
O valiant one
who bowed
falsely and vilely trapped us,
traitorous lord.
And yet,
(remembrance mocks,)
should I have bent the maiden
to a kiss?
Ares the lover
or enchanting Love?
but had I moved
I feared
for that astute regard;
for that bright vision,
how might I have erred?
I might have marred and swept
another not so sweet
into my exile;
I might have kept a look
recalling many and many a woman’s look,
not this alone,
astute, imperious, proud.
And yet
I turn and ask
again, again, again,
who march to death,
what was it worth,
reserve and pride and hurt?
what is it worth
to such as I
who turn to meet
the invincible Spartans’
massed and serried host?
what had it cost, a kiss?