This Sindonitic holy man
Converted, overcome by pity,
Thais, the famous courtesan,
To Christianity.
Thais was not thin or frail
But full of figure. Flesh and blood
Rose up in riot—made her rail
At a selfless God.
From Theban windows, far above,
She plays and sings to a guitar
With low voice: the light of love
Beckons like a star.
Eagerly she welcomed in
The unexpected Sindonite;
But he spoke to her of sin—
Set her soul alight.
So they went together out
To the crowded, garish street,
Where he taught her how to flout
Fumes of wine and meat.
To the Thebaid they go—
Where she stands each Christian test,
Plaiting palm-leaves to and fro,
Sure of heaven's rest.
In the desert they both died,
Thais and the holy man.
They were buried side by side,
Ascetic and courtesan.
METAMORPHOSIS
The woods that ever love the moon, rest calm and white
Beneath a mist-wrapp'd hill:
An owl, horned wizard of the night,
Flaps through the air so soft and still;
Moaning, it wings its flight
Far from the forest cool,
To find the star-entangled surface of a pool,
Where it may drink its fill
Of stars; a blossom-laden breeze
Scatters its treasures—each a fallen moon
Among the waiting trees—
Bears back the faded shadow-scents of noon.
The whispering wood is full of dim, vague fears.
The rustling branches sway
And listen for some sound from far away—
A silver piping down the Pagan years
Since Time's first joyous birth—
The listening trees all sigh,
The moment of their hornèd king is nigh.
Then, peal on peal, there sounds the fierce wild mirth
Of Pan their master, lord and king,
And round him in a moonlit ring
His court, so wan and sly!