Chapter III: The Poet (2)

Where is the coolness of a breath? Where is The covering shadow of a leafy tree? I faint! My frame is bent! My way is lost! I droop exhausted on the briny earth, And in my lethargy I feel the thorns Upon my brow; the bitter brine upon My lips; the sultriness of the south wind Upon my hands; the kisses of the marsh Upon my feet; the rushes' fondling on My breast; and the hard fate and impotence Of this bare world within me. Where art thou, My love? See far, in depths of purple sunsets Gorgeously painted, the glad festival That golden grasses on the meadow weave, The festival thrice-fragrant with blond flowers, Sees me, and calls me still, and waits for me!

THE FAIRY

When in the evening on my hut the moon Spreads her soft silver nets that dreams have wrought, The hut is caught, and, by the net bewitched, It changes and becomes a lofty tower.

And then, unseen by the Day's Sun, the father Of Health, the rosy-cheeked, who always sees All things with careless and short-sighted eyes, A monstrous vision lo, the Fairy Illness, Stripped in the silver glimmer of the moon, Herself of moonlight born, looms into sight Slowly in the enchanted tower's midst!

In whitening shimmers, she, like sea at night, Advances with the step of sleeping men; Death's pallor is her own, though not Death's chill; Her ivory skeleton is mantled by A fleshy cover made of fiery air; The uncouth flowers on her dragging veil Seem, like the poppies, crimson red and black; And still more uncouth look the countless things Wrought on its folds: dragons and ogresses, Fevers and lethargies and pains of heart, Nightmares and storms and earthquakes, breaking nerves.

Delirium flies from her burning lips, A language made of odd, discordant rhythms. To nothing, either hers or strange, her eyes Are like; deep, as abyss untrod, they yawn, And seem as if they gaze immovable On empty space. Yet shouldst thou stoop with thirst To mirror on her staring eyes thine own, Then wouldst thou see worlds buried in their caves, Like ruined cities of whole centuries, Sunk in the fairy-spangled oceans' depths!

OUT IN THE OPEN LIGHT

Out in the open light, the Sun is shining, Father of Health, Health rosy cheeked, whose breasts Are full, and yield their milk abundantly; She only sees those things of flesh about Which her divine sun-father shows to her; And her unconquerable iron hands Are matched with careless and short-sighted eyes.

Out in the open light, even the moon, The Sibyl, clothed in white, appears, with glance Lyncean, piercing deep and bringing forth From the world's ends great hosts of monstrous things, The monsters born of shadows and of dreams.

FIRST LOVE

When in my breast I felt my first-born love, Thrice-noble maiden of compliant heart, I was possessed with the strange fear that filled The youthful princess of the ancient tale At sight of the black man's enchanted rod.

O mate, who madest first my early years Blossom, too soon thou fleddest far from me Nor sawest me again! Wild Fairies took My speech, and evil demons seized my all; Yet soul and body, my whole being shivers From that awakening thou sangest me, Eternal Woman! Thou wert what far Mecca Is for the faithful's prayer to his prophet. O far off Mecca! O eternal Fear Of white Desire upon the shining wings Of a black sinner! O king Love, chased like Orestes, by a Fury serpent-haired!

THE MADMAN

A madman chased my early childhood years Thrice-sweet and blossoming, and seizing them-- Alas!--he crushed them in his reckless fury Like twigs of purple-colored pomegranate!

He scattered them in pieces everywhere: Into the joyless house and in the yard, On narrow streets, and paths, and pathless haunts, Where persecution raves, and menace dumb Chills all away from the pure light and air. The madman's cursed hands hold everything With snares and claws and stones and knives; they fall On loneliness and on embracings, night Or day, on sleep or wake, and everywhere!

And yonder on the streets and in the houses, Children like me in age, whose years were filled With bloom and sweetness, freely ran and laughed And played. Behind me, close, the madman's snares I heard; and then, the deadened sound of feet! I breathed his flaming breath! And if his steps Were slow, still wilder did his laughter hunt me!

Oh, for my life's cold quiverings of pain! Oh, for the goading--not like the divine Goading that drove the maid of Inachus, Io, to wander on and on in frenzy;-- But like the sudden goading that smites down The little bird when first it tries its wings! And lo, blood of my blood the madman was! A past, ancestral, long forgotten sin, That, bursting forth upon me vampire-like, Snatched from my head the dewy crown of joy!

OUR HOME

Our home has not the ugly clamoring Nor the dumb stillness of the other homes About and opposite. For in our home Rare birds sing forth uncommon melodies; And in our home-yard a young offshoot grows, Sprung from Dodona's tree oracular! And in the garden of our home, full thick, The ironworts and snakeroots blossom on; And in our home the magic mirror shines Reflecting always in its gleaming glass The visage of the world thrice-wonderful!

The silence of our home is full of moans, Moans vague and muffled from a distant world Of bygone ages and of times unborn; And in our home souls come to life and die. Blossom from blossom blossoms forth and fades! Old men have the white, rich, Levitic beard, The foreheads wide of solemn contemplation, The wrath of prophets, and the fleeting calm And chilling threatfulness of the gray shadows.

Glowing with love-heat like resistless Satyrs, The young men in the mind's most shady glades Hunt ardently the bride that is pure thought. The children drop their playthings carelessly, And, standing in a corner motionless, Open their eyes in thought like men full-grown. And all, ancestors and descendants, young Or old, have ways that challenge ridicule And have the word that bursting forth makes slaves!

But still more beautiful and pure than these, An harmony fit for the chosen few Fills with its ringing sounds our dwelling place, A lightning sent from Sinai and a gleam From great Olympus, like the mingling sounds Of David's harp and Pindar's lyre conversing In the star-spangled darkness of the night.

THE DEAD

Within this place, I breathe a dead man's soul; And the dead man, a blond and beardless youth! A youthful light and blond stirs in our home; And moments fly, and days and years and ages. The dead man's soul is in this lonely house Like bitter quiet about a calm-bound ship That longs for the sea-paths, and dreams of storms.

All faces, smoked with the faint smoke that glides From candles lighting death! All eyes, still fixed On a sad coffin! And the mute lips, tinged With the last kiss's bitterness, still tremble. As for a prayer, hands are raised, and feet Move quietly as behind a funeral. The snow-white nakedness of the cold walls And black luxuriance of the mourning robes Are like discordant music of two tunes.

The children's step is light in thoughtful care Lest they disturb the slumber of the dead. The old men, bent as at a pit's dark end, Lean on the virgins' shoulders, virgins fair Like fates benevolent and comforting. The young men seek on endless paths to find In Wisdom's hands the weed Oblivion. And on the window shutters that are closed, The clay pots with their flowers seem to be A dead man's wreath; and the lone ray that glides Through the small fissure is transformed within Into a taper's light on All Souls' Day.

The candle burning at the sacred image Is flickering and snaps as if it wrestled With death. At moments, led astray, comes here A butterfly of varied wings and brings In airy flesh the _Ave_ of the soul That did enchant the house, the house that seems Glad for its dead yet loves and longs for him, The dead blond youth, and claims him as its own! And luring him, that it might hold for ever Its chosen love relentlessly, it has Now changed its form and turned from house to grave!

THE COMRADE

O boy of the glad school of seven years, With thy tall form, a shadow of all thou wert. Thy voice had sweetness never heard before, A font of holy water of which all Partook with fear and longing! We forgot With thee the book and laughed thy merry laughter; Thou didst tear lifeless readings from our minds Together with the pedant's torpid mullen, And didst sow deep into our hearts the seed Of the gold tree that dazzles with its light, And charms, and is a tale most wonderful!

The princesses, with valiant heroes mated, Shone in the hauntless palace of our thought, First-born; and on imagination's meadow, Another April bloomed. We saw Saint George, The rider, slay the dragon and redeem The maiden. They were not letters that thy hand's White clay did write, but like the mystic seal Of Solomon, it scratched a magic knot; And thy forefinger moved within thy hand Like fair Dionysus' thyrsus blossoming!

Amidst the restless swarm of humming children, We had the clamor; and thou hadst the honey, Turning attention to a prayer, thou, O comrade of the early years that bloomed, O chosen being, unforgettable, Worthy of everlasting memory! Wherever thou still art or wanderest; Whomever thou hast followed of the two Women, who, in the past, did stir Alcmena's Great son, after thou camest upon them On some crosspath; whether thou blossomest Like the pure lily, or tower-like thou risest; Whether thou art neglected like a crumb, Shinest as thy country's pride, or art alone, A stranger among strangers wandering; Whether life's riddle or the grave's holds thee; Whatever and wherever thou now art, O brother mine and mate, from my lips here Accept my distant kiss with godlike grace!

RHAPSODY

Homer divine! Joy of all time and glory! When in the coldness of a frigid school, Upon the barrenness of a hard bench, My teacher's graceless hands placed thee before me, O peerless book, what I had thought would be A lesson, proved a mighty miracle!

The heavens opened wide and clear in me; The sea, a sapphire sown with emerald; The bench became a throne palatial; The school, a world; the teacher, a great bard!

It was not reading nor the fruit of thought: A vision it was that shone most wonderful, A melody my ears had never heard.

In the great cavern that a forest deep Of poplars and of cypresses encircles, In the great fragrant cavern that the glow Of burning cedar beats with pleasant warmth, Calypso of the shining hair spins not Her web with golden shuttle; nor sings she With limpid voice. But lifting up her hands, She pours her curses from her flaming heart Against the jealous gods: "O mortal men Adored by the immortal goddesses, Who on Olympus shared with you their love's Ambrosia, and mortals crushed to dust By jealous gods!..." The goddess's awful curse Makes the fresh celeries and violets fade, And, like the hail sent by the heaven's wrath, It burns the clusters on the fruitful vines!

The hero far renowned of Ithaca Alone heeds not the flaming curse, that he, A wanderer, in the Nymph's heart did light Unwittingly. But sea-wrecked and sea-beaten, He sits without, immovable, with eyes Fixed far away; and thus remembering His native island's shores, for ever weeps Upon the coast and near the sea thrice-deep. The white sea-gull that often in its flight Plunges its wings into the brine to catch The fish, and the lone falcon perched afar In the deep forest, lonely and remote, Listen and answer to the hero's wail.

Oh, for my phantasy's revealed first vision! Oh, for the baring of the beautiful Before me! Lo, the dusty, dark-brown land Changes into a Nymph's isle lily-white! The humble fisher lass upon the rock, Into Calypso of the shining hair, love-born! My heart, a traveller into a thousand Lands, thirsting for one country, which is love!

And lo, my soul is, ever since, a lyre Of double strings that echoes with its sound The harmony thrice ancient, curse or wail! Joy of all time and glory, godlike Homer!

IDYL

Now when the tide has covered all the land, Making the pier a sea, the street a strand, And the boat casts anchor at my threshold; Now when I see, wherever I may glance, The water's victory, the billow's glory, And see the rising tide a ruling empress; Now when a playful and good-minded flood Closes about the houses, plants, and men Fondly, in a soft-flowing, sweet embrace; Now when the air, the planter of the tree Of Health, raised by the great sea's breath, digs deep Into the open breasts of living things;

Now, I remember her, the little lass Who had the sea's pure dew, and, like a wave Resistless, surpassed the tide in vehemence. Now I recall the little nimble lass, Life's victory, blossoming youth's proud glory, And joy's own throne. Now I remember her.

Her face was like a cloudless early dawn; Her hair like moonlight shimmering upon The restless wave; her passing, like the flash Of a swift fish that in the night swims by Upon its silver path; her eyes were tinged With the deep color of the sea beneath Black clouds; her voice, the sound of a calm night Upon the beach; her chiseled dimples twin Upon her cheeks were overfilled with smiles That Loves might drink from them to slake their thirst.

Boy-like, she stepped on nimble foot and free, Boldly and daringly with fearless look, A child's soul dwelling in a woman's flesh.

And when the high tide covered all the land, Making the pier a sea, the street a strand, And when the boat cast anchor at my threshold, Then from her home the little girl came forth Half bare, half clad, robed in the robe of light In a swift dancing flood that revelled full Of water-lust and crowns of seething foam.

She gave her orders to the sea; she ruled The tide and forward drove the foaming waves, Just as a shepherd lass, her white-clad sheep. Her native country, first and last, the sea! And whenever she passed, a Venus new Seemed rising from the shining water's depths.

The fisherman, a primitive world's breed, The sum of Christian and of Satyr blood, Returning from his fruitful fishing path, Looked upon her as on an evil tempter And on a sacred image; and his oars Hung on his hands inert as palsy stricken, And the swift-winging bark stood like a rock; And, marble-like, the fisherman within Gazed with religious trembling and desire, Exclaiming as in trance: "O holy Virgin!"

AT THE WINDMILL

About the windmill, the old ruin, when The smile of dawn shines in its rosy tinge, The fisherboys now stir the silent air With sudden ringing shouts and joyful plays; And the light barks that, fastened, wait their coming, Flutter impatiently like flapping wings Of birds whose feet are bound. And all about, The lake-like sea revels in shimmers white Like a wide-open pearl shell on the beach.

About the windmill, the old ruin, when The noon's beams burn like red-hot iron bars, A laden sleep draws with its heavy breath All weary skippers and all mariners: The harpoons creak not in the hand's hard clasp; The fish alone stir in the realm of dew; The calm lagoon about is all agleam, A shield of silver, plaited with pure gold.

Far by the windmill, the old ruin, when The sun is setting, decked in all his glory, The boys go running, looking for pumice stones; And lads and lasses, for sweet furtive glances; And old men, lingering for memories. Old age is calm, and youth considerate. And the lagoon about, a purple glow, A garden thickly planted with blue gentians.

Far by the windmill, the old ruin, when The secret midnight glides by silently, Sea Nereids, brought on the wings of air From the sea caves of Fairies on their steeds Of mist with manes of radiating light, Sing songs, and bathe their diamond forms, and love, While round about the princess-like lagoon Wears as her royal robe the star-spun sky.

Far by the windmill, the old ruin, ere The smile of dawn shine with its rosy tinge, The hosts of tyrant slayers mount from below And kiss the earth war-nurtured and war-glad. They raise again the ruin to a castle With rifles singing back to victories; And the lagoon is full of flashes swift, Like a dark eye kindled with fiery wrath.

WHAT THE LAGOON SAYS

I have the sweetness of the lake and have The bitterness of the great sea. But now, Alas! my sweetness is a little drop; My bitterness, a flood. For the cold winter, The great corsair, has come with the north wind, Death's king. My azure blood has slowly flowed Out of my veins and gone to bring new life To the deep seas. A shroud weed-woven wraps me.

My little islands as my tombstones stand, And yonder well-built weirs are like young trees That droop above my grave bereft of water.

But even so in the death's cold clasp, I hear Within my breast a secret voiceless flutter Like the young fish's flurry when, transfixed, It is dragged by the spear out of the sea. For I still dream of the sweet breath of love, And wait for the hot summer's kiss and yours, O angels of good tidings and new life, Spring breezes, sources of my dreams and love!

PINKS

Fair pinks, with your breath, I have drunk your soul! Brown is the fisherman, and brown the land With the sea brine, the south wind, and the sun; And round the brown land's neck, like necklace Of coral, grow the pinks. Pinks of the gardens, And pinks of the windows; pinks like crowns and stars; Gifts good for any hand, and ornaments For any breast. O flowers blossoming In pleasant rows along the houses' stairs, You sprinkle each man's path with fragrances; And now and then, you bow, touched by the dress Of the young girl who, breeze-like, passes by.

Pinks full and pinks faint-colored; flowers that cause No languor as the roses nor refresh, Like jasmines, flesh and soul; but whose scent has Something of the sharp breath of the lagoon, Even when you are pale like fainting virgins, And even when a world-destroying fire Enflames your petals without burning you!

Pinks, that display now your form's nakedness Like children's bodies freshly bathed, and now The varied ornaments of senseless dwarfs, And now the purple of great emperors! All the transporting music of the red, Like that of many tuneful instruments, Springs from your heart and knows no end, but plays Before my eyes its lasting harmonies. Sweet pinks, with your breath, I have drunk your soul!

RUINS

I turned back to the golden haunts of childhood, And back on the white path of youth; I turned To see the wonder palace built for me Once by the holy hands of sacred Loves.

The path was hidden by the thorny briars; The golden haunts, burned by the midday sun; An earthquake brought the wonder palace low;

And now amidst the ruins and ashes, I Am left alone and palsy-stricken; snakes And lizards, pains and hatreds dwell now here In constant loathful brotherhood with me. An earthquake brought the wonder palace low!

PENELOPE

Wars distant, tempests wild, and foreign lands Keep thy life-mate for years and years away; Dangers and scornings threaten thee; and care With guile and wrath gird thee, Penelope.

About thee, enemies and revellers! But thou wilt hear, and look, and wait for none But him; and on thy loom thou weavest always And then unweavest the thread of thy true love, Penelope.

Than Europe's goods and Asia's Even a greater treasure is thy kiss; Thy loom, much higher than a royal throne; Thy brow an altar, O Penelope!

Mortals and gods know only one more priceless Than thine own loom, thy forehead, or thy kiss: Thy mate, the king thou always longest for, Penelope. Yet even though strange lands Keep him away from thee, and distant wars, And monstrous Scyllas, and the guileful Sirens, Not even they can blot him from thy soul, Him, thy thought's whitest light, Penelope!

A NEW ODE BY THE OLD ALCAEUS

To Lesbos' shores, where the year's seasons always Sprinkle the field with flowers, and where glad The rosy-footed Graces always play With the young maidens, once the stream of Hebrus, Hand-like, brought Orpheus' orphan lyre; and since That time, our island is a sacred shrine Of Harmony, and its wind's breath, a song!

The soul Aeolian took up the lyre Born upon Thracian lands, as foster child; And on its golden strings the restless beatings Of Sappho's and Erinna's flaming hearts Were echoed burningly.

And I, who fight Always against blind mobs and tyrants deaf, I, the pride of the chosen few, the stay Of the great best, returning from exile, A billow-tossed world-wanderer, did stir The selfsame lyre with a new quill and breathed Upon its strings a new heroic breath.

Upon the love-adorned and verdant island, Like a god's trident, now Alcaeus' quill Wakens the storm of sounds, and angrily He strikes with words that are like poisoned arrows Direct and merciless against his foe, Whether a Pittacus or Myrsilus.

In vain did tender love reveal before me On rose-beds Lycus, the young lad, with eyes And hair coal-black, with rosy garlands bound, And Sappho of the honeyed smile, the pure, A muse among the muses, and the mother Of a strange modesty. Love moved me not!

I raised an altar to the war-god Ares; And on my walls, I hung war ornaments, Weapons exulting in the battle's roar. I sang of the sword bound with ivory, My brother's spoil from distant Babylon. I saw my hapless country's ship tossed here And there, and beaten by the giant waves Of anarchy; and with my golden Lyre, Whose voice is mightier than the wild fury Of a tempestuous sea, I called on War, The War who revels in men's blood, to come As a destroyer or deliverer.

And when the war did come in savage din, Brought upon Lesbos by the might of Athens, With heart exultant, I saluted him: "Hail, war of glory!" Yet, alas and thrice Alas! Amidst the world of death and ruins, Though eager warrior and heavy armed, I felt the solid earth beneath me shake; My vengefulness, fade into fleeting mist; My breastplate, press on me like a nightmare; And my white-crested helmet, like a tombstone!

Confusion was my harbor; and I felt In me Life's longing win the victory. And while the nations twain, like maddened bulls Goad-driven, rushed upon each other's death, And stern Alecto spread about the flames Of Tartarus, I saw before mine eyes --O sight enchanting!--Lesbos' luring shores!

Never before were they so beautiful With love and verdant! There I gazed on Lycus, The boy with eyes and hair coal-black that never Before had touched my heart so powerfully. And the Muse Sappho of the honeyed smile Glittered before me, pure and violet crowned; And her strange modesty bewitched my tongue With power unwonted until then; and I, The strong, silently feasted on her beauty!

And while about the maddened Ares raged, Reaper of men and vanquisher of rocks, With my soul's eyes, I followed on the trail Of the Lyre-God, who passed that way, returning From the Hyperboreans' land. He passed Aloft, crowned with a golden diadem, Upon a chariot drawn by snow-white swans, Towards his Delphic palaces, flower-decked, With nightingales and April on his train.

Oh, would that I might live to touch them! Would That I might hold their charms in my embrace, Those charms so sweet and guileful and divine!

And at the thought--alas, and thrice alas!-- I threw my trusted sword and shield away, And fled, a shameful coward and a traitor!

FRAGMENTS FROM THE SONG TO THE SUN 1899

_IMAGINATION_

_Imagination, mistress, come! Come thou leading master, mind! And you, O tireless workers, come, Water-Fairies of the Rhythm! Come, and from Desire's great depths, And from the Reason's lofty heights, Bring, oh bring me lasting flowers Wrought on marble and on gold! Bring me words of splendid sound! Build with them the palace high! And within it raise aloft The Sun's image all-transcending Wrought of sunlight gleaming bright!_

THE GODS

And the first-born man beheld The sun rise in the east; And from within his bosom lo, A stream of music rose, An answer sweet to the sun's light, A music stream of hymns, Countless words and countless praises To the fountain of the day! And--O miracle!--all hymns And countless words and praises Spread in waves from end to end! And taking flesh in time, They became great gods of light And signs of harmony!

MY GOD

Wounded with the mighty love Of my mistress Life, I wander on, her loyal herald And her worshipper. To thy mystic suppers call Me not, O Galilean, Prophet of the misty dream, Denier of things that are! Crowned with lotus, show me not Nirvana's senseless bliss! Yet, do thou, O Sun, shine forth About, within, above; Shine upon my love and make A world of the Earth planet! Shine life-giving with thy light, O my Sun and God!

HELEN

_... She gave not me, but made a breathing image
Of the light air of heaven and gave that
To royal Priam's son! And yet he thought
That he had me--a vain imagining!..._

EURIPIDES, _Helen_, 33-36.

Helen am I! In the Sun's fountain Have I taken birth! I am the Sun-god's golden dream, And unto him I go! Not about me, but about Mine image, which the gods Had wrought, life's perfect counterfeit, Recklessly gods and heroes Plunged into war and war's destruction! For the Cimmerian Enchanter carried far away As his own mate my shade Thrice-beautiful, that rose to life From Night's embrace in an Enchanted land and hour. I am The bride intangible, Inviolable, beyond all reach! Helen am I!

THE LYRE

I know a lyre that is as priceless As a sacred amulet; A spirit with a master hand Made it and cast it here. No mortal hand of skill or love Or power rouses it, Nor makes it answer to the touch With sound or voice or sigh. Even the wise and beautiful, The northwind and the breeze Cannot awaken the sweet lyre! Only the Sun-god's beams, They with one kiss alone can make Its sun-enamored strings Sing Siren-like!

GIANTS' SHADOWS

Like moanings of the sea, I hear Voices ascend from darkness: Are they the giants' shadows moving? --Shadow, who art thou? Speak! --I am the Telamonian! And see, within me I Close the whole sun that never sets Though Hades yawn about; Weep not for me! --And thou beside him? --The heart of Teutons' land Brought me to life. A maker, I, Maker sublime of worlds Olympian, have even here In Tartarus' dark realm One longing for my heart, one thirst: I long and thirst for light!

THE HOLY VIRGIN IN HELL

The chariot moves, drawn by wings Of Cherub Spirits, on! In Hell, the Holy Virgin gleams! "Mercy, O sunlike Lady!" The damnèd cry and beat their breasts Amidst the flames that burn, Fed by the great abyss. Among them, A sudden proud complaint Is heard: "A worshipper was I Of the great Sun; was this A cause for night to fetter me? Tell me, O sunlike Lady! The light of life I sucked, did that Become the Hell's embrace And Satan's kiss for me?"

SUNRISE

The white swans gently drag their boats Of ivory; bright beams Glimmer as through a veil of agate; And coral-wrought, the crowns Shine on fair locks like amber gleaming. A pearl lake dreamlike lives With water lilies studded. Azure-browed Fairies revelling Quaff wine of honey gold; And mighty riders steal away With brides thrice-beautiful. But thou, an archer mightier, Risest unmaking all The multitudes of binding charms With the one charm of light, O God of wing-sped chariot!

DOUBLE SONG

The lithesome maiden stood thrice-fair, Her eyes like gems agleam! "I pour the crimson wine of love In empty cups of gold!" --"Maiden, I am the nestless bird; Flowery boughs bar not My way. Bound for bright suns magnetic, I sail through darkness blind. Seer am I and worshipper Of all that is and lives! I am the harp of thousand strings Of countless sounds!" --"Thou blind! Seest thou not within mine eyes The magnetism and glory Of all the suns?"

THE SUN-BORN

On great Olympus, a feast of joy! The gods divide the earth; The light-bestower is away; Forgotten he will be. And the light-giver came and nodded To the blue sea; and lo, The sea was rent with fruitful heave! And the Sun's island rose With a thousand beauties crowned; And makers lived upon the island, Beings above all men; And they made statues masterful, All beautiful like gods And living as immortals live!

ON THE HEIGHTS OF PARADISE

The little house I built for thee To dwell therein, enchanter, Even that--to my care-bent grief-- Becomes a heavy grave. Yet, little soul of lily whiteness, Spare me thy sad complaint; For on the heights of paradise, I wander longing and I search. I search and wait for it. And on the crossroads wide Of the suns, I shall find a house Snow-white that even eagles High-flying never face; a house That Visions great alone May touch. Therein I shall enthrone thee!

THE STRANGER

When first the vaulting palm-leaves spread Their shelter over thee, The golden Cyclads danced about With merry shouts and laughter. But now,--O nakedness of plains And mountains! Withering Of green leaves everywhere! Thorns suck The green blood of the vines! No April looked on thee again; And on the desert land, The wars of elements and beasts Rage furious. But thee The snow-white swans bring back no more; Thou art for ever guest At the Hyperboreans' feast.

AN ORPHIC HYMN

Far from the footpaths of the thoughtless, An Orphic priest and bard, I bring to light again a hymn Of a thrice-ancient cult. For until now my thought flowed on, A river under earth. Amidst men's tumult my lyre's rhythm, A sudden wonder rose. At night I start, at night I climb The mountain difficult; I wish alone and first to greet Light Apollonian While among mortal men below Darkness and sleep shall reign.

THE POET

Sun made the lily white, The glory of the flowery earth; Sun made the swan, which is The lily of a life white-winged; The eagle, whom he lures Spell-bound to his great heights, And the gold shimmer of the moon, The lovers' loving comrade. And then he dreamed a creature fuller Of lilies, eagles, swans, and shimmers, And made the poet. He Alone beholds thee face to face, O God; and he alone, Reaching into thy heart, reveals To us thy mysteries.

KRISHNA'S WORDS

I am the light within the sun, The flush within the fire; And on the page of the sacred book, I am the mystic word. The men of mighty deeds call me Glory; the wise men, wisdom. Of things existing and of truth, I am the fountain head! I am the life of all that is! Beings and pearls are bound Together with one thread; and that, Is I! Maya alone, The sorceress, behind me follows Beguiling me. But I Battle with her to victory!

THE TOWER OF THE SUN

Away beyond the world's far edge, And where the heavens end, The tower of the sun shines bright Dazzling the mortal's mind. Once mighty princes, sons of kings, Went on a chase most wonderful, And stopped at the Sun's tower. And the Sun came, the dragon star, The giant merciless! Woe unto him who lingers there By the far heavens' end! And the Sun came; and with his spell, He turned them into stones, The princely hunters, sons of kings!

No azure field, no streak of green, No shadow, and no breath! Only a death of light and lightning Glitters about and gleams! And in the tower, in and out, As if by masters set, A world of statues voiceless stand, The offsprings of great kings. And from their deep and smothered eyes, Something like living glance Struggles to peep through its stone veil! It seems the stone-bound princes Wait for a sail, long lingering, From the world's shores away.

And thou, O princess beautiful, Camest from far away, A fair Redeemer! The Sun's tower Gleamed forth as if the light Of a new Dawn embraced its walls. Thou knowest where Life's Fountain Flows, and thou searchest silently, With steps that slowly move Towards the fountain tower-guarded where Life's water flows. And lo, Taming the watchful dragon's fangs, Thou drawest from the fountain Where the sweet water of Life flows on; And sprinkling them with it, Thou wakest up the sons of kings! And on thy homeward trail, Thou shinest with transcending gleam, Like a far greater Sun!

A MOURNING SONG

No! Death cannot have taken thee! In the sweet hour of love, The Sun-god lifted thee away, O child of sunlike beauty! He took thee to his palaces To fill thee with his love, A love that lives in light and is An endless glittering! Flowers with light-born fragrances And fruits as sweet as light, The Sun will pluck for thee; and he Will bathe thee in a stream Flooded with light. And clad In a white robe of light, my child, Thou wilt come back to me, Riding on a star-crowned deer!

PRAYER OF THE FIRST-BORN MEN

Each time the dawn reveals thy face, Each time the darkness hides thee, Before the eyes of all the world, In crimson red thou shinest, Father and God blood-revelling! A bath in blood immortalizes Thine unfathomed beauty! Blood feeds and veils thee, Father And God blood-revelling! To quench thy thirst, we offer thee Our only children's lives; And if their blood fills not thy thirst, We spread for thee a sea Of all the blood of our own heart!

THOUGHT OF THE LAST-BORN MEN

Where temples sounded with hosannas, Stones lie dumb in crumbling ruins; And forgetfulness has swept Dreams and phantoms once called gods. Even you are gone, O myths, Golden makers of the thought, Gone beyond return! In the empty Infinite, Blind laws drive in multitudes Flaming worlds of endless depths. And yet neither gold-haired Phoebus, Who is dead, nor yet the sun, Who now lives a world-abyss, None, God or law, upon this earth Could save us or will ever save Either from the claws of love Or from the teeth of death!

MOLOCH

Barbarians defile the land Where the Greek race was born! And where the loves flew garlanded, Night-bats roam to and fro! And in our night, as a glowworm, The ancients' memory Sends forth its greenish counterfeit Of light! It is a night That our undying sun cannot Dispel with its bright beams! From depths and heights, barbarians Suck soul and fatherland! And when with a low moan thrice-deep, We ask thee, Grecian God, "Art thou the golden-haired Apollo?" Grimly thou answerest, "Moloch, am I!"

ALL THE STARS

When I first looked with wonderment On thee, O Muse of Light, The morning star upon thy brow Shone with bright glittering. And I said: "More of light I need!" And as I looked again On thee, O Muse of Light, the moon Shone brightly on thy brow. And "More!" I said and looked again: And saw the sun agleam! But still insatiate I am, And wait to look on thee When on thy brow, O Muse of Light, The star-spun sky shall shine!

ARROWS

Thou earnest, Phoebus, lower down From pure Olympus' heights Towards the land where idle men And sluggards worthless dwell; And on thy lyre thou playedst, Fountain Of flowing harmonies! The deaf made answer with their sneers! The blind, with scornful laughter! And then to rid the world of filth And purify the air, Thou threwest away thine angry lyre; And turning archer, thou, With fiery arrows smotest all The flocks of fools away!

VERSES OF A FAMILIAR TUNE 1900

_THE BEGINNING_

_A wedding guest, I travel far abroad! The bride, thrice beautiful; the groom, a wizard; And I ride swiftly to the wedding feast. The land is far, and I must travel on; An endless path before me leads away, But till I reach the end, I check the ardor Of my swift-footed stallion silver-shod, And wisely shorten my way's weary length With sounds that, like sweet longings, wake in me, Old sounds familiar, low-whispering Of women's beauties and of home-born shadows. Then flowers pour their fragrances for me; And blossoms with no scent have their own speech, The speech of voiceless eyes that open wide; Unconsciously I speak my words in rimes That with uncommon measure echo forth The flames that burn within the heart, the kisses That the waves squander on the sandy beach, And the sweet birds that sing on children's lips!_

THE PARALYTIC ON THE RIVER'S BANK

Upon the graceless river bank that spread Barren and desert, all things drooped in sickness; And I, with palsy stricken, lay in pains! Vainly my hands shook feather-like with fever; Methought my feet were nailed upon the ground; The river, wide and wild; and far beyond, As far as eyes could see, the other bank Revelled in lusty growth and endless mirth With leafy slopes and forests glistening! Meadows unreaped and glades untrod were there, And floods of green and tempests of new blossoms! About the tree-tops glittered crowns of light; Shadows thrice-deep hid mysteries divine; And all descended blindly to the bank Where the wild river's anger held them back, Seeking, it seemed, a ford to come across To the dark bank of wilderness and torture!

And toward me all seemed to stretch their hands, Sending me shameless kisses as I lay Parched by the burning wind and worn with fever. Nearby a sun-dried reed poured forth its sighs; And farther, a small laurel stirred its leaves: The double treasure of my wilderness.

I wished to cut a flute from the dry reed And wished a crown of laurel; but I lay Nailed down immovable as if the rod Of an enchantress evil-born had touched me; And within me, with wings of impotence, My wounded mind fluttered on hopelessly!

And then thou camest girt with working garb; With girdle flower-spun, with apron full Of fruits, didst thou bend over me. The spell Thou didst dispel and gavest me to eat And cleansedst me with myrrh; and suddenly, A soul divine and merciful came down On the bank merciless; and in thine arms Lifting me gently, thou didst go forth Amidst a moaning as of humming bees. Thou stoodst on the threshold of the peasant hut, The hut that was earth-built and filled with grass As if the art of a small bird had wrought it.

Thou didst lay me upon a bed at dusk That I might rest; and mingled with sweet care And innocence, thou didst lean by my side With body ripe and beautiful. Wert thou A lover, mother, sister, or a woman? Thou didst lay on my brow thy hand to lull me; And in thy thoughtful face, I saw the gleam Of kindly Nausica and good Rebecca.

I slept and woke; even my sorrow's ogress Had turned into a fairy sweetly sad! And in my hands I found both, laurel bough And reed! I drank the fragrant morning breath Of pines; and taking up the laurel boughs, I wove with master hand the whole day long All kinds of laurel crowns for thee; and then I poured into the unaccustomed air Of thy small hut a flute's soft-flown complaint.

But from my bed, I lifted up mine eyes To the window's light and saw again, alas, The desert river bank, and, far beyond, The world that squandered diamonds and pearls And revelled in its joy of green dew-clad. Again they nodded secretly at me, Stretching their hands and feigning love! And even near thee, palsy struck I was, The paralytic on the river bank!

THE SIMPLE SONG

Thou camest far away from lands beyond! Thou wert not a gold sunlit cloud at sunset But mother of a honeyed tenderness That until then lay hidden in my mind's Tenderest shrine; the golden seal of a Young maiden's joy stamped with its touch! The evening star thou wert not; but thou wert The sister of a simple love that lay Hidden till then in my heart's inner depths.

Before me thou didst not unfold the spaces Of the blue skies; not didst thou lift mine eyes Towards the rough-hewn peak; nor didst thou open To me the way for distant palaces; Nor didst thou lead me by a secret path Untrod. But lifting with one hand the basket, Gently thou heldest with the other mine; And leading me to sit by ferns dew-clad And deep green grass and snow-white flowers, thou Badest me stoop and gather; and I stooped And gathered all my hands could reach: wall-flowers, Hyacinths, violets, and daffodils; And found beside them a May day anew.

Over their petals newly reaped and fresh That made the basket seem a cruel spring, I bent and wept for their deaths swift and fair; And lo, thou didst face them, a Life agleam!

THREE KISSES

A Dream flew down and stood before mine eyes-- Who knows from what unknown deep-hidden nest? It took the face of my own secret love And blew me with its hands three airy kisses:

The first air-kiss spread in my breast the din Of bitter and sweet life in waves of air; And the world's music sounded manifold, A tempest's roar and a sweet breath's caress.

The second air-kiss whispered low to me All whisperings that Silence stoops to sing Over bare wilderness and tombs and ruins, Songs that no soul nor even wind can hear.

The third air-kiss would bring to me, it seemed, Secrets from somewhere heard by none before. Perhaps, by some bright star, two spirits white Embraced each other as they passed in thought.

ISMENE

_To N.G. Polites, her father._

Where is the little girl and beautiful Who drew the milk of a full life and precious? She filled her home with fragrance, and away She sailed to anchor in another land.

She filled her home with fragrance, and on wings Swiftly she fled and passed away. Who knows Why she has left the flesh? Perhaps, she went Among the mystic joys of things unseen And things intangible to be herself Something new, something beyond compare or word.

And yet her house is wrapped in spider webs And longs for her. To her warm nest, will she Return? Perhaps, each time you feel, O home, Within your bosom something sweet and tender That cannot be explained, it may be she; Who knows? Then speak to her and say: "Do you, Too, long for me, O soul without return?"

THOUGHTS OF EARLY DAWN

Who are you that awake me in the morning? Not the reveille that sweetens with its sounds The soldier's hardy life. Nor can you be The chapel bell that slowly rings to prayer.

* * * * *

Your steps fall heavy on the road. You bring Thought, light, and sound, my sacred Trinity. What if you rouse the slave who goes to work? What if you call the prodigal to sleep?

* * * * *

Not many were the flowers; and few, the lilies; And I did long to reap the lily-treasure. I eyed the lilies all, and walked into The garden rich to clasp them in mine arms.

* * * * *

And in the garden, all the roses smiled; Under their veils, the violets bowed down. I passed them by. The pansies looked erect And scentless, wrapped in thought: by them, I stopped.

Sweet child, upon thy tomb, a rosebud blossomed; The hand would reach at it, but it cannot. And on its path the wind would blow on it; But ere he light, it dies into a kiss.

* * * * *

Like church lights shine the blossoms in the light; And butterflies are drunk with airy fragrance; Yet neither for fragrance nor for light, I come Into the quiet garden as before.

* * * * *

I come to see the children beautiful, Running and playing, full of beaming smiles, Children that make of grassy beds a heaven And rise like miracles among the flowers.

* * * * *

The brows of righteous men pass slow before me, Clouds calm and wide, full of refreshing rain; And from the lightless depths of hell, methinks I hear breast-beatings and dark blasphemies. And suddenly, I mingle speech with rime, The rime that above human things and woes, Like the Platonic Diotima, rises A prophetess upon a path sublime Towards worlds of thought and earth-transcending loves.

* * * * *

Whatever be thy substance, O bright gleam, Iron or stone, silver or wind, air-cloud Or dream, my longing is the same for thee! Within me thought and hands and art and science Struggle to build together the same temple. Maternal Rhea treasures in her breast All marbles: purple, green, and white. I searched And found them in your care, Taygetus Snake-like, and Cyclads fair, and Attica. And now the columns stand a forest speechless And motionless; and among them, the rhythms And thoughts move in slow measures constantly. And in their depths, light-written images Show Love that leads and Soul that follows him.

* * * * *

The axe and hammer of the priest black-robed Struck down the holy idols of the temples; And yet the soul of the ruins perished not! It climbed the heaven's spaces as a star Until new sculptured lilies came to life In master minds, the gardens of the wise. Thus axe and hammer of the priest black-robed Broke not the holy idols of the temples!

* * * * *

Sweet child, upon thy tomb a rosebud blossomed; Is it thy joy or grief? Thy heart or thou? If mind, remember me! If mouth, speak forth! "I am the movement of the motionless, The lightning flushing from the source of nothing!"

* * * * *

Thy cup is foaming with its black strong wine; Bring to our fountain thy white-foaming cup, And brighten into red thy black strong wine With the fresh water of our fountain here.

* * * * *

I have a thought of dew; a heart of flame! The wine vat boils; the spring flows fresh and cool; And I did mingle in my chiseled cup The black strong wine with the sweet water dew.

A hundred years! A hundred years are gone Of Grecian mornings and of Grecian sunsets! Make them a coffin wide, O carpenter, And bury them, the hapless dead, in silence!

* * * * *

A hundred dragons watch a queen black-robed, A widowed orphan queen in a lone castle; And they dig up the scattered fragments of An ancient and exhaustless treasure, once Her own, and bring them as their gifts to her! "I need no fragments! May the hour be cursed And you, dragons, who hold me prisoner! I dream of her, the living perfect land Where I was queen! While here, I am a slave!"

* * * * *

Loud-crying birds that fly toward the heights, White swans, and swans that cut so tenderly The silent waters of the lake in thoughts Of silent sorrow, tameless birds and weary! O swans that dream the conquest of the sun, And swans that wait the coming of deep sleep!

Within me lies a far and secret kingdom Where I can see lake-swans and winds like you!

* * * * *

My banished life has found a home near thee; And by thy grace, I am thy priest, O Phoebus! And taking from thy bright divinity, I made the sun-born maiden to thy glory! I lifted to thine image my loud praises, And lo, bells hoarse and tuneless answered them. Yet what of it? Thine endless praise I am, And paeans follow on my dithyrambs!

TO A MAIDEN WHO DIED

O little life, quenched by the blow of death Amidst the tender dreams of rosy dawn, I cannot lift thee into deathlessness Upon the chiseled glitter of the marble!

I am a humble bard; and thou, a music Silenced, whose strains my memory cannot Recall. Yet with a deeper bond my soul Thou bindest, O breath unpainted and unsung.

Like a far dawn, thou smiledst in my mind, A dawn most sweet and shy and fleeting. Then One day, over my child's pure head thou bentest With face abloom with smiles and fond caresses.

And something amber-like remained in me From thee, though thou didst pass; and in the evening Which in me rises slowly, the dream fairy Of the azure tales looks with thy face on me.

TO THE SINNER

Sinner, thy mother gave thee not the milk That makes the cheek a rose, the man a castle! Each nursing was a sin; each drop, a sickness! Within thee, ancient lives revive thrice-wretched.

Vices of ancestors unknown and instincts Of beastly fathers, ever travelling, Before they rose to light, thus to become Like smiles and fields of azure blue, came down To dwell in thee, a people of tormentors!

And one day, sinner, thine own mother gave To thee the wonder-working holy image To carry it to the sacred festival Of the illumined church with open gates Calling upon its throngs of worshippers.

And on thy way, the luring harlot watched And stripped thee of thy mind; and as thy hands Struggled to clasp her, down the image fell, The sacred image, in the ditch's filth!

And forthwith even there, the plague began To visit thee! And crumbling down, thou didst Begin to groan and tremble nearer death Than the dead corpse on which the ravens feed! And Satan crouching upon thee rejoices!

And seeing it, thou strugglest painfully, Stretchest thy hands towards the ditch's filth, And darest a prayer to the saint defiled, Though still enflamed by thirst for the vile kiss!

A TALK WITH THE FLOWERS

Upon my passing, slow or swift, by you I lingered not, nor stooped to pluck you, flowers! I saw you as a vision skyward roaming, And I adored you just as thought and sky! My hand reached not to touch you sinfully, My flowers! For what is most beautiful Is also most remote. You were for me The music that the wind brings on its wings In perfect strains directly to the heart. I wished your dazzling could remain as that Of castles barred and inaccessible. From far thy fragrance came to me, O jasmine; And thy gleam, lily, like the eyes' light-kisses!

But since my darling child lay down to sleep The bitter sleep that knows no wakening, I am the cruel reaper always bending Above you, gathering you one by one, And ever binding you in royal garlands, And ever weaving you into rich robes For him! I wish to play new plays with him, And spread you over him as mine embrace! I wish to raise him as a flower garden Breathing into his grave the flower soul Of an immortal April. Oh, I wish ... Weak though I am, would all earth's verdancy Were a long dream and kiss for my beloved! Would that whatever is beyond man's touch, Air-born, transcending earth, or fleeting, all That has a sunbeam as its heart, a breeze as body, Fair vision, thought, or heaven--would that I Could close them into forms and scatter them Upon his flower-clad grave with you, sweet flowers!

In my paternal love, pure white, the flames Of passion burn; and then, the yellow languor Of a sick man! Thus did I love him, flowers! His father though they called me, I was his lover!

O flowers, did you know it? Was your life, So pure and little, ever touched by such A woe? Does not a quenchless longing stir you As you grow on the selfsame flower bough?

The body of my child, sent up from depths Unfathomed of a secret Fate unhoped, Was an epiphany of the fair bride, The bride undreamable, intangible Of a god's dream! Was he of mine own blood? I never thought whether he was to live, Grow, or advance in thought and deed; I was Drunk with his luring wine, his eyes, his face, His gait! The breath of blest Makaria Had blown on him! The stranger's song revolved Before my mind: "Thou little line so fine, Written with roses, line that wert his mouth, How dost thou give birth to that mighty trembling?"[22]