3
So the goddess has slain me
for your chance smile
and my scarf unfolding
as you stooped to it;
so she trapped me
with the upward sweep of your arm
as you lifted the veil,
and the swift smile and 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.
Lethe
NOR skin nor hide nor fleece
Shall cover you,
Nor curtain of crimson nor fine
Shelter of cedar-wood be over you,
Nor the fir-tree
Nor the pine.
Nor sight of whin nor gorse
Nor river-yew,
Nor fragrance of flowering bush,
Nor wailing of reed-bird to waken you,
Nor of linnet,
Nor of thrush.
Nor word nor touch nor sight
Of lover, you
Shall long through the night but for this:
The roll of the full tide to cover you
Without question,
Without kiss.
Sitalkas
THOU art come at length
more beautiful
than any cool god
in a chamber under
Lycia’s far coast,
than any high god
who touches us not
here in the seeded grass:
aye, than Argestes
scattering the broken leaves.
Hermonax
GODS of the sea;
Ino,
leaving warm meads
for the green, grey-green fastnesses
of the great deeps;
and Palemon,
bright seeker of sea-shaft,
hear me.
Let all whom the sea loves,
come to its altar front,
and I
who can offer no other sacrifice to thee
bring this.
Broken by great waves,
the wavelets flung it here,
this sea-gliding creature,
this strange creature like a weed,
covered with salt foam,
torn from the hillocks of rock.
I, Hermonax,
caster of nets,
risking chance,
plying the sea craft,
came on it.
Thus to sea god,
gift of sea wrack;
I, Hermonax, offer it
to thee, Ino,
and to Palemon.
Orion Dead
(Artemis speaks.)
THE cornel-trees
uplift from the furrows,
the roots at their bases,
strike lower through the barley-sprays.
So arise and face me.
I am poisoned with the rage of song.
I once pierced the flesh
of the wild deer,
now I am afraid to touch
the blue and the gold-veined hyacinths?
I will tear the full flowers
and the little heads
of the grape-hyacinths,
I will strip the life from the bulb
until the ivory layers
lie like narcissus petals
on the black earth.
Arise,
lest I bend an ash-tree
into a taut bow,
and slay—and tear
all the roots from the earth.
The cornel-wood blazes
and strikes through the barley-sprays
but I have lost heart for this.
I break a staff,
I break the tough branch.
I know no light in the woods.
I have lost pace with the wind.
Charioteer
In that manner (archaic) he finished the statue of his brother. It stands mid-way in the hall of laurels ... between the Siphnians’ offering and the famous tripod of Naxos.
ONLY the priest
of the inmost house
has such height,
only the faun
in the glade
such light, strong ankles,
only the shade of the bay-tree
such rare dark
as the darkness
caught under the fillet
that covers your brow,
only the blade
of the ash-tree
such length, such beauty
as thou,
O my brother;
and only the gods
have such love
as I bring you;
but now,
taut with love,
more than any bright lover,
I vowed
to the innermost
god of the temple,
this vow.
God of beauty, I cried,
as the four stood alert,
awaiting the shout
at the goal
to be off;
god of beauty,
I cried to that god,
if he merit the laurel,
I dedicate all of my soul
to you; to you
all my strength and my power;
if he merit the bay,
I will fashion a statue
of him, of my brother,
out of thought,
and the strength of my wrist
and the fire of my brain;
I will strive night and day
till I mould from the clay,
till I strike from the bronze,
till I conjure the rock,
the chisle, the tool,
to embody this image;
an image to startle,
to capture men’s hearts,
to make all other bronze,
all art to come after,
a mock,
all beauty to follow,
a shell that is empty;
I’ll stake all my soul
on that beauty,
till God shall awake
again in men’s hearts,
who have said he is dead,
our King and our Lover.
Then the start,
ah the sight,
ah but dim, veiled with tears,
(so Achilles must weep
who finds his friend dead,)
will he win?
then the ring of the steel
as two met at the goal,
entangled and foul,
misplaced at the start,
who, who blunders? not you?
what omens are set?
alas, gods of the track,
what ill wreaks its hate,
speak it clear,
let me know
what evil, what fate?
for the ring of sharp steel
told two were in peril,
two, two, one is you,
already involved
with the fears of defeat;
two grazed;
which must go?
As the wind,
Althaia’s beauty came;
as one after a cruel march,
catches sight,
toward the cold dusk,
of the flower
that’s her name-sake,
strayed apart
toward the road-dust,
from the stream
in the wood-depth,
so I in that darkness,
my mouth bitter
with sheer loss,
took courage,
my heart spoke,
remembering how she spoke:
“I will seek hour by hour
fresh cones, resin
and pine-flowers,
flower of pine,
laurel flower;
I will pray:
‘let him come
back to us,
to our home,
with the trophy of zeal,
with the love and the proof
of the favour of god;
let him merit the bay.’
(I expect it,)
I myself on earth pray
that our father may pray;
his voice nearer the gods
must carry beyond
my mere mortal prayer:
‘O my father beyond,
look down and be proud,
ask this thing
that we win,
ask it straight of the gods.’”
Was he glad,
did he know?
for the strength
of his prayer and her prayer
met me now
in one flame,
all my head, all my brow
was one flame,
taut and beaten
and faintly aglow,
as the wine-cup
encrusted and beaten and fine
with the pattern of leaves,
(so my brow,)
yet metallic and cool,
as the gold of the frigid metal
that circles the heat
of the wine.
Then the axel-tree cleft,
not ours, gods be blest;
now but three of you left,
three alert and abreast,
three—one streak of what fire?
three straight for the goal:
ah defeat,
ah despair,
still fate tricked our mares,
for they swerved,
flanks quivering and wet,
as the wind
at the mid-stretch
caught and fluttered a white scarf;
a veil shivering,
only the fluttering
of a white band,
yet unnerved and champing,
they turned,
(only knowing the swards of Achæa)
and he, O my love,
that stranger,
his stallions
stark frenzied and black,
had taken the inmost course,
overtook,
overcame,
overleapt,
and crowded you back.
O those horses
we loved and we prized;
I had gathered Alea mint
and soft branch
of the vine-stock in flower,
I had stroked Elaphia;
as one prays to a woman
“be kind,”
I had prayed Daphnaia;
I had threatened Orea
for her trick
of out-pacing the three,
even these,
I had almost despaired
at her fleet, proud pace,
O the four,
O swift mares of Achæa.
Should I pray them again?
or the gods of the track?
or Althaia at home?
or our father who died for Achæa?
or our fathers beyond
who had vanquished the east?
should I threaten or pray?
The sun struck the ridge of white marble
before me:
white sun on white marble
was black:
the day was of ash,
blind, unrepentant, despoiled,
my soul cursed the race and the track,
you had lost.
You, lost at the last?
Ah fools,
so you threatened to win?
ah fools,
so you knew my brother?
Greeks all,
all crafty and feckless,
even so, had you guessed
what ran in his veins and mine,
what blood of Achæa,
had you dared,
dared enter the contest,
dared aspire with the rest?
You had gained,
you outleapt them;
a sudden, swift lift of the reins,
a sudden, swift, taut grip of the reins,
as suddenly loosed,
you had gained.
When death comes
I will see
no vision of after,
(as some count
there may be an hereafter,)
no thought of old lover,
no girl, no woman,
neither mother,
nor yet my father
who died for Achæa,
neither God with the harp
and the sun on His brow,
but thou,
O my brother.
When death comes,
instead of a vision,
(I will catch it in bronze)
you will stand
as you stood at the end,
(as the herald announced it,
proclaiming aloud,
“Achæa has won,”)
in-reining them now,
so quiet,
not turning to answer
the shout of the crowd.
The Look-out
BETTER the wind, the sea, the salt
in your eyes,
than this, this, this.
You grumble and sweat;
my ears are acute
to catch your complaint,
almost the sea’s roar is less
than your constant threat
of “back and back to the shore,
and let us rest.”
You grumble and curse your luck
and I hear:
“O Lynceus,
aloft by the prow,
his head on his arms,
his eyes half closed,
almost asleep,
to watch for a rock,
(and hardly ever we need
his ‘to left’ or ‘to right’)
let Lynceus have my part,
let me rest like Lynceus.”
“Rest like Lynceus!”
I’d change my fate for yours,
the very least,
I’d take an oar with the rest.
“Like Lynceus,”
as if my lot were the best.
O God, if I could speak,
if I could taunt the lot
of the wretched crew,
with my fate, my work.
But I may not,
I may not tell
of the forms that pass and pass,
of that constant old, old face
that leaps from each wave
to wait underneath the boat
in the hope that at last she’s lost.
Could I speak,
I would tell of great mountains
that flow, great weeds
that float and float
to tangle our oars
if I fail “to left, to right;”
where the dolphin leaps
you saw a sign from the god,
I saw why he leapt from the deep.
“To right, to left;”
it is easy enough
to lean on the prow, half asleep,
and you think,
“no work for Lynceus.”
No work?
If only you’d let me take an oar,
if only my back could break with the hurt,
if the sun could blister my feet,
pain, pain that I might forget
the face that just this moment
passed through the prow
when you said, “asleep.”
Many and many a sight
if I could speak,
many and many tales I’d tell,
many and many a struggle,
many a death,
many and many my hurts
and my pain so great,
I’d gladly die
if I did not love the quest.
Grumble and swear and curse,
brother, god and the boat,
and the great waves,
but could you guess
what strange terror lurks in the sea-depth,
you’d thank the gods for the ship,
the timber and giant oars, god-like,
and the god-like quest.
If you could see as I,
what lurks in the sea-depth,
you’d pray to the ropes
and the solid timbers
like god, like god;
you’d pray to the oars and your work,
you’d pray and thank
the boat for her very self;
timber and oar and plank
and sail and the sail-ropes,
these are beautiful things and great.
But Lynceus at the prow
has nothing to do but wait
till we reach a shoal or some rocks
and then he has only to lift his arms,
right, left;
O brother,
I’d change my place
for the worst seat
in the cramped bench,
for an oar, for an hour’s toil,
for sweat and the solid floor.
I’d change my place
as I sit with eyes half closed,
if only I could see just the ring
cut by the boat,
if only I could see just the water,
the crest and the broken crest,
the bit of weed that rises on the crest,
the dolphin only when he leaps.
But Lynceus,
though they cannot guess
the hurt, though they do not thank
the oars for the dead peace
of heart and brain worn out,
you must wait,
alert, alert, alert.
Odyssey
MUSE,
tell me of this man of wit,
who roamed long years
after he had sacked
Troy’s sacred streets.
ALL the rest
who had escaped death,
returned,
fleeing battle and the sea;
only Odysseus,
captive of a goddess,
desperate and home-sick,
thought but of his wife and palace;
but Calypso,
that nymph and spirit,
yearning in the furrowed rock-shelf,
burned
and sought to be his mistress;
but years passed,
the time was ripe,
the gods decreed,
(although traitors plot
to betray him in his own court,)
he was to return
to Ithaca;
and all the gods pitied him;
but Poseidon
steadfast to the last
hated
god-like Odysseus.
The sea-god visited
a distant folk,
Ethiopians,
who at the edge of earth
are divided into two parts,
(half watch the sun rise,
half, the sun set,)
there the hecatomb
of slain sheep and oxen
await his revels:
and while he rejoiced,
seated at the feast,
the rest of the gods
gathered in the palace of Olympian Zeus;
and the father of men and of gods spoke thus:
(for he remembered bright Egisthus,
slain of Agamemnon’s child,
great Orestes:)
O you spirits,
how men hate the gods,
for they say evil comes of us,
when they themselves,
by their own wickedness,
court peril
beyond their fate;
so Egisthus, defiant,
sought Agamemnon’s wife
and slew Agamemnon
returning to his own palace,
though we ourselves
sent bright Hermes,
slayer of Argos,
to warn him
lest Orestes,
attaining to man’s estate,
demand his inheritance
and take vengeance:
we forbade him to strike the king,
we warned him to respect his wife:
but could Hermes
of gracious aspect,
subtle with kindly speech,
thus avert the foul work?
Then the grey-eyed Athene,
the goddess, spoke:
O my father, Kronos begot,
first among the great,
his death at least was just,
so may all perish who err thus;
but my heart is rent
for the prudent Odysseus,
who, exiled from his friends,
is kept too long distressed
in an island, sea swept,
in the sea midst,
a forest island,
haunt of a spirit,
child of Atlas,
crafty of thought,
who knows the sea depth,
who supports the high pillars
which cut sky from earth;
it is his child
who keeps Odysseus
lamenting with broken heart,
ceaseless to tempt him
with soft and tender speech,
that he forget Ithaca;
but Odysseus,
yearning to see but the smoke
drift above his own house,
prefers death;
your heart, is it not touched,
O Olympian?
did not Odysseus please you
when he made sacrifice
before the Grecian ships
in great Troy?
why are you angry, Zeus?
Then Zeus,
keeper of the clouds,
answering her, spoke:
O my child,
what quaint words
have sped your lips,
for how could I forget
the god-like Odysseus,
a spirit surpassing men,
first to make sacrifice
to the deathless
in the sky-space?
but Poseidon
girder of earth,
though yet he spares his life,
nurtures unending hate;
he goads him from place to place
because of the Cyclops
blinded of Odysseus,
Polyphemus, half-god,
greatest of the Cyclops,
whom the nymph Thoosa,
child of Phorcys,
king of the waste sea, begot
when she lay with Poseidon
among the shallow rocks:
but come,
let us plot
to reinstate Odysseus,
and Poseidon must abandon his wrath;
for what can one god accomplish,
striving alone
to defy all the deathless?
Then the grey-eyed Athene,
the goddess, spoke:
O my father, Kronos begot,
first among the great,
if then it seems just
to the highest,
that Odysseus return
to his own house,
let us swiftly send
Hermes, slayer of Argos,
your attendant,
that he state
to the fair-haired nymph,
our irrevocable wish,
that Odysseus,
valiant of heart,
be sent back:
and I will depart to Ithaca,
to incite his son,
to put courage in his heart,
that he call to the market place
the long-haired Greeks
and shut his gates
to the pretendants
who ceaselessly devour his flocks,
sheep and horned oxen
of gentle pace:
that he strive
for his father’s sake
and gain favour
in men’s thoughts,
I will send him to Sparta,
to Pylos’ sandy waste.
She spoke
and about her feet
clasped bright sandals,
gold-wrought, imperishable,
which lift her above sea,
across the land stretch,
wind-like,
like the wind breath.