YOU are the Delphic Oracle
Of the Under-World.
As we sit talking,
All of us together,
You flash forth sudden utterance
Of buried things
That writhe in obscure life
Within our minds' last darkness.
That which we think and say not
You say and think not.
In us these thoughts
Like worms stir vilely.
But from you they depart as sudden butterflies
Crimson and green against the pure sky.
Many are the revelers;
Few are the thyrsus-bearers;
And sole is Dionysus.
This I inscribe to you,
Singer,
In memory of the crags of Delphi
And the Thessalian vales beyond.
EMANUEL MORGAN
Opus 40
TWO cocktails round a smile,
A grapefruit after grace,
Flowers in an aisle
. . . Were your face.
A strap in a street-car,
A sea-fan on the sand,
A beer on a bar
. . . Were your hand
The pillar of a porch,
The tapering of an egg,
The pine of a torch
. . . Were your leg.—
Sun on the Hellespont,
White swimmers in the bowl
Of the baptismal font
Are your soul.