IRRUPTION
WELL-GREAVED Achaians; lordliest Atreides;
Great-hearted friendship, foes no lesser-hearted;
Murmur of leaves on distant Latmos; coo
Of doves on Thisbe; pasture-land of horses,
Argos! and thou, the windy-beached Enispe;
Achaian fleet on that unvintaged sea,
Vessels of bronze and scarlet, beaked with gold,
In great procession Troy-wards, ranging wide
Over wide waters, bearing mighty captains,
Sons of the gods, the fosterlings of Zeus,
Casters of spear and javelin, fleet-footed
Or wise in council, flowing-haired Achaians,
—This was my epic and my company.
For you, Tintagel pinnacled on rocks
Emerged from desolate chords, until your mood
Wearied of saga; melted to the dusk
Falling on Spanish cities, when the shutters
Open again on evening, and the flute
Of some stray passing goat-herd down the street
Pipes idly, or the strident gay guitar
Befriends the lover’s whisper at the window;
For you sat playing, and your fingers roamed
To Russia, where the simple is the blessed,
And woke both melancholy pomp and folly,
And passed again to fantasy that is
Homeless, and shies away from thoughts of home.
I read; you played; we had no need of speech.
They came, noisy and shrill, well-meaning; they
Spoke to us first of wealth and then of love,
The love of others, negligently shrewd
And empty in their chatter. Then they spoke,
Wise and judicious, and we answered them,
Judicious likewise, flattering their mood.
But our eyes found each other, and we fell
Suddenly silent, caught in treachery,
Remembering that proud world wherein we dwelt erstwhile.