THE DYE
From Scythian wood they brew
The dye whose yellow hue
Turns gold the lovely hair
Of Lesbians fair.
So, Zanthis, slave of mine,
Shall dip the fleeces fine,
And dye the robes I made
A saffron shade.
[EROTIKA>]
DITHYRAMBS
HYMN TO PAPHIA
Immortal Paphia! have I earned thy hate,
That I should burn in passion's fatal flame?
Is not my constant service thine to claim,
My prayer's appeal with praise of thee elate?
Has not my life been one sole hymn of thee,
One quivering chord on Love's harp overwrought?
My soul has trembled up to thee in thought,
Probed to its depth thy every ecstasy.
Are not my countless heart-beats each a vow,
Of tribute throbs a garland? For thy gain
The Fates have drenched my soul in passion's rain,
Pieria's roses twined about my brow.
The virgin harvest of my heart was thine,
I shuddered in the joy that half consumed;
The votive garlands on thy altar bloomed,
My days were songs to nights of bliss divine.
Why try me, then, with torture, gracious Queen?
Why verge me on this rapture's dread abyss,
Hold breast from breast and stay the yearning kiss?
Ah, couldst thou fashion pain that stung less keen?
The throe of Tantalus is mine to bear,
Beauty that Thetis-like eludes my clasp;
Glances that lure, that make each breath a gasp,
And then disdainful gloat at my despair.
Scornful she dwells beyond my ardor's clutch,
Bathed in an aureole of carnal fire;—
O bind her equal slave to fond desire,
Let passion's tingling warmth her being touch!
Come to me, Goddess, come as once of old,
Hearing my voice implore thee from afar,
I drew to earth thy dazzling avatar;
Accord the smile of piercing bliss untold.
Ask me the dear suave question phrased of yore;
"Sappho, who grieveth now thy mad fond heart?
Wouldst win her beauty, she who frowns apart?
Wild as thou lovest, she soon shall love thee more."
O fair Olympian, answer thus, I pray!
Release me from this torment, yield my arms
The transport thirsted of her folded charms,
In glow that welds her heart to mine for aye.
EROS
From the gnarled branches of the apple trees
The heavy petals, lifted by the breeze,
Fluttered on puffs of odor fine and fell
In the clear water of the garden well;
And some a bolder zephyr blew in sport
Across the marble reaches of my court,
And some by sudden gusts were wafted wide
Toward sea and city, down the mountain side.
Lesbos seemed Paphos, isled in rosy glow,
Green olive hills, the violet vale below;
The air was azure fire and o'er the blue
Still sea the doves of Aphrodite flew.
My dreaming eyes saw Eros from afar
Coming from heaven in his mother's car,
In purple tunic clad; and at my heart
The God was aiming his relentless dart.
He whom fair Aphrodite called her son,
She, the adored, she, the imperial One;
He passed as winds that shake the soul, as pains
Sweet to the heart, as fire that warms the veins;
He passed and left my limbs dissolved in dew,
Relaxed and faint, with passion quivered through;
Exhausted with spent thrills of dread delight,
A sudden darkness rushing on my sight.
PASSION
Now Love shakes my soul, a mighty
Wind from the high mountain falling
Full on the oaks of the forest;
Now, limb-relaxing, it masters
My life and implacable thrills me,
Rending with anguish and rapture.
Now my heart, paining my bosom,
Pants with desire as a mænad
Mad for the orgiac revel.
Now under my skin run subtle
Arrows of flame, and my body
Quivers with surge of emotion.
Now long importunate yearnings
Vanquish with surfeit my reason;
Fainting my senses forsake me.
APHRODITE'S PRAISE
O Sappho, why art thou ever
Singing with praises the blessed
Queen of the heaven?
Why does the heart in thy bosom
Ever revert in its yearning
Throb to the Goddess?
Why are thy senses unsated
Ever in quest of elusive
Love that is deathless?
Ah, gracious Daughter of Cyprus,
Never can I as a mortal
Tire of thy service.
Thou art the breath of my body,
The blood in my veins, and the glowing
Pulse of my bosom.
Omnipotent, burning, resistless,
Thou art the passion that shaking
Masters me ever.
Thou art the crisis of rapture
Relaxing my limbs, and the melting
Ebb of emotion;
Bringing the tears to my lashes,
Sighs to my lips, in the swooning
Excess of passion.
O golden-crowned Aphrodite,
Grant I shall ever be grateful,
Sure of thy favor;
Worthy the lot of thy priestess,
Supreme in the song that forever
Rings with thy praises.
THE FIRST KISS
And down I set the cushion
Upon the couch that she,
Relaxed supine upon it,
Might give her lips to me.
As some enamored priestess
At Aphrodite's shrine,
Entranced I bent above her
With sense of the divine.
She had, by nature nubile,
In years a child, no hint
Of any secret knowledge
Of passion's least intent.
Her mouth for immolation
Was ripe, and mine the art;
And one long kiss of passion
Deflowered her virgin heart.