Thou art so lithe and lovely
And yet thou art not ours.
What Delphic saying compels thee
Of kings or topless towers?
That little blowing mantle
Thou losest from thine arm —
No shoon nor staff, Agathocles,
Nor sword, to fend from harm!
Thou hast the changed impersonal
Awed brow of mystery —
Yesterday thou wast burning,
Mad boy, for Glaucoe.
Philis thy mother calls thee:
Mine eyes with tears are dim,
Turn once, look once, Agathocles —
(~The gods have blinded him.~)
Come back, Agathocles, the night —
Brings thee what place of rest?
Wine-sweet are Glaucoe's kisses,
Flower-soft her budding breast.
He seems to hearken, Glaucoe,
He seems to listen and smile;
(~Nay, Philis, but a god-song
He follows this many a mile.~)
Come back, come back, Agathocles!
(~He scents the asphodel;
Unearthly swift he runneth.~)
Agathocles, farewell!
To-Day. [Helen Gray Cone]
Voice, with what emulous fire thou singest free hearts of old fashion,
English scorners of Spain, sweeping the blue sea-way,
Sing me the daring of life for life, the magnanimous passion
Of man for man in the mean populous streets of To-day!
Hand, with what color and power thou couldst show, in the ring hot-sanded,
Brown Bestiarius holding the lean tawn tiger at bay,
Paint me the wrestle of Toil with the wild-beast Want, bare-handed;
Shadow me forth a soul steadily facing To-day!