Where hast thou been since round the walls of Troy
   The sons of God fought in that great emprise?
      Why dost thou walk our common earth again?
Hast thou forgotten that impassioned boy,
      His purple galley and his Tyrian men
   And treacherous Aphrodite’s mocking eyes?
For surely it was thou, who, like a star
   Hung in the silver silence of the night,
   Didst lure the Old World’s chivalry and might
Into the clamorous crimson waves of war!

Or didst thou rule the fire-laden moon?
   In amorous Sidon was thy temple built
      Over the light and laughter of the sea
   Where, behind lattice scarlet-wrought and gilt,
      Some brown-limbed girl did weave thee tapestry,
All through the waste and wearied hours of noon;
Till her wan cheek with flame of passion burned,
   And she rose up the sea-washed lips to kiss
Of some glad Cyprian sailor, safe returned
   From Calpé and the cliffs of Herakles!

No! thou art Helen, and none other one!
   It was for thee that young Sarpedôn died,
      And Memnôn’s manhood was untimely spent;
   It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried
With Thetis’ child that evil race to run,
      In the last year of thy beleaguerment;
Ay! even now the glory of thy fame
   Burns in those fields of trampled asphodel,
   Where the high lords whom Ilion knew so well
Clash ghostly shields, and call upon thy name.

Where hast thou been? in that enchanted land
   Whose slumbering vales forlorn Calypso knew,
      Where never mower rose at break of day
   But all unswathed the trammelling grasses grew,
And the sad shepherd saw the tall corn stand
      Till summer’s red had changed to withered grey?
Didst thou lie there by some Lethæan stream
   Deep brooding on thine ancient memory,
   The crash of broken spears, the fiery gleam
From shivered helm, the Grecian battle-cry?

Nay, thou wert hidden in that hollow hill
   With one who is forgotten utterly,
      That discrowned Queen men call the Erycine;
   Hidden away that never mightst thou see
The face of Her, before whose mouldering shrine
      To-day at Rome the silent nations kneel;
Who gat from Love no joyous gladdening,
   But only Love’s intolerable pain,
   Only a sword to pierce her heart in twain,
Only the bitterness of child-bearing.

The lotus-leaves which heal the wounds of Death
   Lie in thy hand; O, be thou kind to me,
      While yet I know the summer of my days;
   For hardly can my tremulous lips draw breath
To fill the silver trumpet with thy praise,
      So bowed am I before thy mystery;
So bowed and broken on Love’s terrible wheel,
   That I have lost all hope and heart to sing,
   Yet care I not what ruin time may bring
If in thy temple thou wilt let me kneel.

Alas, alas, thou wilt not tarry here,
   But, like that bird, the servant of the sun,
      Who flies before the north wind and the night,
   So wilt thou fly our evil land and drear,
Back to the tower of thine old delight,
      And the red lips of young Euphorion;
Nor shall I ever see thy face again,
   But in this poisonous garden-close must stay,
   Crowning my brows with the thorn-crown of pain,
Till all my loveless life shall pass away.

O Helen!  Helen! Helen! yet a while,
   Yet for a little while, O, tarry here,
      Till the dawn cometh and the shadows flee!
   For in the gladsome sunlight of thy smile
Of heaven or hell I have no thought or fear,
      Seeing I know no other god but thee:
No other god save him, before whose feet
   In nets of gold the tired planets move,
   The incarnate spirit of spiritual love
Who in thy body holds his joyous seat.

Thou wert not born as common women are!
   But, girt with silver splendour of the foam,
      Didst from the depths of sapphire seas arise!
   And at thy coming some immortal star,
Bearded with flame, blazed in the Eastern skies,
      And waked the shepherds on thine island-home.
Thou shalt not die: no asps of Egypt creep
   Close at thy heels to taint the delicate air;
   No sullen-blooming poppies stain thy hair,
Those scarlet heralds of eternal sleep.

Lily of love, pure and inviolate!
   Tower of ivory! red rose of fire!
      Thou hast come down our darkness to illume:
For we, close-caught in the wide nets of Fate,
   Wearied with waiting for the World’s Desire,
      Aimlessly wandered in the House of gloom,
Aimlessly sought some slumberous anodyne
   For wasted lives, for lingering wretchedness,
Till we beheld thy re-arisen shrine,
   And the white glory of thy loveliness.

THE BURDEN OF ITYS

This English Thames is holier far than Rome,
   Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea
Breaking across the woodland, with the foam
   Of meadow-sweet and white anemone
To fleck their blue waves,—God is likelier there
Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!

Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take
   Yon creamy lily for their pavilion
Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake
   A lazy pike lies basking in the sun,
His eyes half shut,—he is some mitred old
Bishop in partibus! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold.

The wind the restless prisoner of the trees
   Does well for Palæstrina, one would say
The mighty master’s hands were on the keys
   Of the Maria organ, which they play
When early on some sapphire Easter morn
In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne

From his dark House out to the Balcony
   Above the bronze gates and the crowded square,
Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy
   To toss their silver lances in the air,
And stretching out weak hands to East and West
In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest.

Is not yon lingering orange after-glow
   That stays to vex the moon more fair than all
Rome’s lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago
   I knelt before some crimson Cardinal
Who bare the Host across the Esquiline,
And now—those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine.

The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous
   With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring
Through this cool evening than the odorous
   Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing,
When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine,
And makes God’s body from the common fruit of corn and vine.

Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass
   Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird
Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass
   I see that throbbing throat which once I heard
On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady,
Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.

Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves
   At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe,
And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves
   Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe
To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait
Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate.

And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas,
   And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay,
And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees
   That round and round the linden blossoms play;
And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall,
And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall,

And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring
   While the last violet loiters by the well,
And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing
   The song of Linus through a sunny dell
Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold
And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold.

And sweet with young Lycoris to recline
   In some Illyrian valley far away,
Where canopied on herbs amaracine
   We too might waste the summer-trancèd day
Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry,
While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea.

But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot
   Of some long-hidden God should ever tread
The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute
   Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head
By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed
To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed.

Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister,
   Though what thou sing’st be thine own requiem!
Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler
   Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn
These unfamiliar haunts, this English field,
For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield

Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose
   Which all day long in vales Æolian
A lad might seek in vain for over-grows
   Our hedges like a wanton courtesan
Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies too
Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue

Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs
   For swallows going south, would never spread
Their azure tents between the Attic vines;
   Even that little weed of ragged red,
Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady
Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy

Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames
   Which to awake were sweeter ravishment
Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems
   Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant
For Cytheræa’s brows are hidden here
Unknown to Cytheræa, and by yonder pasturing steer

There is a tiny yellow daffodil,
   The butterfly can see it from afar,
Although one summer evening’s dew could fill
   Its little cup twice over ere the star
Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold
And be no prodigal; each leaf is flecked with spotted gold

As if Jove’s gorgeous leman Danae
   Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss
The trembling petals, or young Mercury
   Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis
Had with one feather of his pinions
Just brushed them! the slight stem which bears the burden of its suns

Is hardly thicker than the gossamer,
   Or poor Arachne’s silver tapestry,—
Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre
   Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me
It seems to bring diviner memories
Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas,

Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where
   On the clear river’s marge Narcissus lies,
The tangle of the forest in his hair,
   The silence of the woodland in his eyes,
Wooing that drifting imagery which is
No sooner kissed than broken; memories of Salmacis

Who is not boy nor girl and yet is both,
   Fed by two fires and unsatisfied
Through their excess, each passion being loth
   For love’s own sake to leave the other’s side
Yet killing love by staying; memories
Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moonlit trees,

Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf
   At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew
Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf
   And called false Theseus back again nor knew
That Dionysos on an amber pard
Was close behind her; memories of what Mæonia’s bard

With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy,
   Queen Helen lying in the ivory room,
And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy
   Trimming with dainty hand his helmet’s plume,
And far away the moil, the shout, the groan,
As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone;

Of wingèd Perseus with his flawless sword
   Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch,
And all those tales imperishably stored
   In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich
Than any gaudy galleon of Spain
Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again,

For well I know they are not dead at all,
   The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy:
They are asleep, and when they hear thee call
   Will wake and think ’t is very Thessaly,
This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade
The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and played.

If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird
   Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne
Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard
   The horn of Atalanta faintly blown
Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering
Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets’ spring,—

Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate
   That pleadest for the moon against the day!
If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate
   On that sweet questing, when Proserpina
Forgot it was not Sicily and leant
Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment,—

Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood!
   If ever thou didst soothe with melody
One of that little clan, that brotherhood
   Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany
More than the perfect sun of Raphael
And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well.

Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young,
   Let elemental things take form again,
And the old shapes of Beauty walk among
   The simple garths and open crofts, as when
The son of Leto bare the willow rod,
And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God.

Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here
   Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne,
And over whimpering tigers shake the spear
   With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone,
While at his side the wanton Bassarid
Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid!

Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin,
   And steal the moonèd wings of Ashtaroth,
Upon whose icy chariot we could win
   Cithæron in an hour ere the froth
Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun
Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn

Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest,
   And warned the bat to close its filmy vans,
Some Mænad girl with vine-leaves on her breast
   Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping Pans
So softly that the little nested thrush
Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will rush

Down the green valley where the fallen dew
   Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store,
Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew
   Trample the loosestrife down along the shore,
And where their hornèd master sits in state
Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate!

Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face
   Through the cool leaves Apollo’s lad will come,
The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase
   Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom,
And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride,
After yon velvet-coated deer the virgin maid will ride.

Sing on! and I the dying boy will see
   Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell
That overweighs the jacinth, and to me
   The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell,
And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes,
And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies!

Cry out aloud on Itys! memory
   That foster-brother of remorse and pain
Drops poison in mine ear,—O to be free,
   To burn one’s old ships! and to launch again
Into the white-plumed battle of the waves
And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves!

O for Medea with her poppied spell!
   O for the secret of the Colchian shrine!
O for one leaf of that pale asphodel
   Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine,
And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she
Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea,

Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased
   From lily to lily on the level mead,
Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste
   The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed,
Ere the black steeds had harried her away
Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless day.

O for one midnight and as paramour
   The Venus of the little Melian farm!
O that some antique statue for one hour
   Might wake to passion, and that I could charm
The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair,
Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my lair!

Sing on! sing on!  I would be drunk with life,
   Drunk with the trampled vintage of my youth,
I would forget the wearying wasted strife,
   The riven veil, the Gorgon eyes of Truth,
The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer,
The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull insensate air!

Sing on! sing on!  O feathered Niobe,
   Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal
From joy its sweetest music, not as we
   Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal
Our too untented wounds, and do but keep
Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and murder pillowed sleep.

Sing louder yet, why must I still behold
   The wan white face of that deserted Christ,
Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold,
   Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed,
And now in mute and marble misery
Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps, perchance for me?

O Memory cast down thy wreathèd shell!
   Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene!
O Sorrow, Sorrow keep thy cloistered cell
   Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly!
Cease, Philomel, thou dost the forest wrong
To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned song!

Cease, cease, or if ’t is anguish to be dumb
   Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air,
Whose jocund carelessness doth more become
   This English woodland than thy keen despair,
Ah! cease and let the north wind bear thy lay
Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay.

A moment more, the startled leaves had stirred,
   Endymion would have passed across the mead
Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames had heard
   Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed
To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid
Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid.

A moment more, the waking dove had cooed,
   The silver daughter of the silver sea
With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed
   Her wanton from the chase, and Dryope
Had thrust aside the branches of her oak
To see the lusty gold-haired lad rein in his snorting yoke.

A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss
   Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon
Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis
   Had bared his barren beauty to the moon,
And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile
Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile

Down leaning from his black and clustering hair,
   To shade those slumberous eyelids’ caverned bliss,
Or else on yonder grassy slope with bare
   High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis
Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer
From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking spear.

Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie still!
   O Melancholy, fold thy raven wing!
O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill
   Come not with such despondent answering!
No more thou wingèd Marsyas complain,
Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain!

It was a dream, the glade is tenantless,
   No soft Ionian laughter moves the air,
The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness,
   And from the copse left desolate and bare
Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry,
Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody

So sad, that one might think a human heart
   Brake in each separate note, a quality
Which music sometimes has, being the Art
   Which is most nigh to tears and memory;
Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear?
Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here,

Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade,
   No woven web of bloody heraldries,
But mossy dells for roving comrades made,
   Warm valleys where the tired student lies
With half-shut book, and many a winding walk
Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk.

The harmless rabbit gambols with its young
   Across the trampled towing-path, where late
A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng
   Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight;
The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads,
Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds

Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out
   Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock
Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout
   Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock,
And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,
And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill.

The heron passes homeward to the mere,
   The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees,
Gold world by world the silent stars appear,
   And like a blossom blown before the breeze
A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky,
Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody.

She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed,
   She knows Endymion is not far away;
’Tis I, ’tis I, whose soul is as the reed
   Which has no message of its own to play,
So pipes another’s bidding, it is I,
Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.

Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite trill
   About the sombre woodland seems to cling
Dying in music, else the air is still,
   So still that one might hear the bat’s small wing
Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell
Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell’s brimming cell.

And far away across the lengthening wold,
   Across the willowy flats and thickets brown,
Magdalen’s tall tower tipped with tremulous gold
   Marks the long High Street of the little town,
And warns me to return; I must not wait,
Hark! ’t is the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate.

WIND FLOWERS

IMPRESSION DU MATIN

The Thames nocturne of blue and gold
   Changed to a Harmony in grey:
   A barge with ochre-coloured hay
Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold

The yellow fog came creeping down
   The bridges, till the houses’ walls
   Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul’s
Loomed like a bubble o’er the town.

Then suddenly arose the clang
   Of waking life; the streets were stirred
   With country waggons: and a bird
Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.

But one pale woman all alone,
   The daylight kissing her wan hair,
   Loitered beneath the gas lamps’ flare,
With lips of flame and heart of stone.

MAGDALEN WALKS

The little white clouds are racing over the sky,
   And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,
   The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch
Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.

A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,
   The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth,
   The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth,
Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.

And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,
   And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,
   And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire
Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.

And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love
   Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,
   And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen
Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.

See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,
   Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,
   And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue!
The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.

ATHANASIA

To that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught
   Of all the great things men have saved from Time,
The withered body of a girl was brought
   Dead ere the world’s glad youth had touched its prime,
And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid
In the dim womb of some black pyramid.

But when they had unloosed the linen band
   Which swathed the Egyptian’s body,—lo! was found
Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand
   A little seed, which sown in English ground
Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear
And spread rich odours through our spring-tide air.

With such strange arts this flower did allure
   That all forgotten was the asphodel,
And the brown bee, the lily’s paramour,
   Forsook the cup where he was wont to dwell,
For not a thing of earth it seemed to be,
But stolen from some heavenly Arcady.

In vain the sad narcissus, wan and white
   At its own beauty, hung across the stream,
The purple dragon-fly had no delight
   With its gold dust to make his wings a-gleam,
Ah! no delight the jasmine-bloom to kiss,
Or brush the rain-pearls from the eucharis.

For love of it the passionate nightingale
   Forgot the hills of Thrace, the cruel king,
And the pale dove no longer cared to sail
   Through the wet woods at time of blossoming,
But round this flower of Egypt sought to float,
With silvered wing and amethystine throat.

While the hot sun blazed in his tower of blue
   A cooling wind crept from the land of snows,
And the warm south with tender tears of dew
   Drenched its white leaves when Hesperos up-rose
Amid those sea-green meadows of the sky
On which the scarlet bars of sunset lie.

But when o’er wastes of lily-haunted field
   The tired birds had stayed their amorous tune,
And broad and glittering like an argent shield
   High in the sapphire heavens hung the moon,
Did no strange dream or evil memory make
Each tremulous petal of its blossoms shake?

Ah no! to this bright flower a thousand years
   Seemed but the lingering of a summer’s day,
It never knew the tide of cankering fears
   Which turn a boy’s gold hair to withered grey,
The dread desire of death it never knew,
Or how all folk that they were born must rue.

For we to death with pipe and dancing go,
   Nor would we pass the ivory gate again,
As some sad river wearied of its flow
   Through the dull plains, the haunts of common men,
Leaps lover-like into the terrible sea!
And counts it gain to die so gloriously.

We mar our lordly strength in barren strife
   With the world’s legions led by clamorous care,
It never feels decay but gathers life
   From the pure sunlight and the supreme air,
We live beneath Time’s wasting sovereignty,
It is the child of all eternity.

SERENADE

(FOR MUSIC)

The western wind is blowing fair
   Across the dark Ægean sea,
And at the secret marble stair
   My Tyrian galley waits for thee.
Come down! the purple sail is spread,
   The watchman sleeps within the town,
O leave thy lily-flowered bed,
   O Lady mine come down, come down!

She will not come, I know her well,
   Of lover’s vows she hath no care,
And little good a man can tell
   Of one so cruel and so fair.
True love is but a woman’s toy,
   They never know the lover’s pain,
And I who loved as loves a boy
   Must love in vain, must love in vain.

O noble pilot, tell me true,
   Is that the sheen of golden hair?
Or is it but the tangled dew
   That binds the passion-flowers there?
Good sailor come and tell me now
   Is that my Lady’s lily hand?
Or is it but the gleaming prow,
   Or is it but the silver sand?

No! no! ’tis not the tangled dew,
   ’Tis not the silver-fretted sand,
It is my own dear Lady true
   With golden hair and lily hand!
O noble pilot, steer for Troy,
   Good sailor, ply the labouring oar,
This is the Queen of life and joy
   Whom we must bear from Grecian shore!

The waning sky grows faint and blue,
   It wants an hour still of day,
Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew,
   O Lady mine, away! away!
O noble pilot, steer for Troy,
   Good sailor, ply the labouring oar,
O loved as only loves a boy!
   O loved for ever evermore!

ENDYMION

(FOR MUSIC)

The apple trees are hung with gold,
   And birds are loud in Arcady,
The sheep lie bleating in the fold,
The wild goat runs across the wold,
But yesterday his love he told,
   I know he will come back to me.
O rising moon!  O Lady moon!
   Be you my lover’s sentinel,
   You cannot choose but know him well,
For he is shod with purple shoon,
You cannot choose but know my love,
   For he a shepherd’s crook doth bear,
And he is soft as any dove,
   And brown and curly is his hair.

The turtle now has ceased to call
   Upon her crimson-footed groom,
The grey wolf prowls about the stall,
The lily’s singing seneschal
Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all
   The violet hills are lost in gloom.
O risen moon!  O holy moon!
   Stand on the top of Helice,
   And if my own true love you see,
Ah! if you see the purple shoon,
The hazel crook, the lad’s brown hair,
   The goat-skin wrapped about his arm,
Tell him that I am waiting where
   The rushlight glimmers in the Farm.

The falling dew is cold and chill,
   And no bird sings in Arcady,
The little fauns have left the hill,
Even the tired daffodil
Has closed its gilded doors, and still
   My lover comes not back to me.
False moon!  False moon!  O waning moon!
   Where is my own true lover gone,
   Where are the lips vermilion,
The shepherd’s crook, the purple shoon?
Why spread that silver pavilion,
   Why wear that veil of drifting mist?
Ah! thou hast young Endymion,
   Thou hast the lips that should be kissed!

LA BELLA DONNA DELLA MIA MENTE

My limbs are wasted with a flame,
   My feet are sore with travelling,
For, calling on my Lady’s name,
   My lips have now forgot to sing.

O Linnet in the wild-rose brake
   Strain for my Love thy melody,
O Lark sing louder for love’s sake,
   My gentle Lady passeth by.

She is too fair for any man
   To see or hold his heart’s delight,
Fairer than Queen or courtesan
   Or moonlit water in the night.

Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,
   (Green leaves upon her golden hair!)
Green grasses through the yellow sheaves
   Of autumn corn are not more fair.

Her little lips, more made to kiss
   Than to cry bitterly for pain,
Are tremulous as brook-water is,
   Or roses after evening rain.

Her neck is like white melilote
   Flushing for pleasure of the sun,
The throbbing of the linnet’s throat
   Is not so sweet to look upon.

As a pomegranate, cut in twain,
   White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,
Her cheeks are as the fading stain
   Where the peach reddens to the south.

O twining hands!  O delicate
   White body made for love and pain!
O House of love!  O desolate
   Pale flower beaten by the rain!

CHANSON

A ring of gold and a milk-white dove
   Are goodly gifts for thee,
And a hempen rope for your own love
   To hang upon a tree.

For you a House of Ivory,
   (Roses are white in the rose-bower)!
A narrow bed for me to lie,
   (White, O white, is the hemlock flower)!

Myrtle and jessamine for you,
   (O the red rose is fair to see)!
For me the cypress and the rue,
   (Finest of all is rosemary)!

For you three lovers of your hand,
   (Green grass where a man lies dead)!
For me three paces on the sand,
   (Plant lilies at my head)!

CHARMIDES

I.

He was a Grecian lad, who coming home
   With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily
Stood at his galley’s prow, and let the foam
   Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously,
And holding wave and wind in boy’s despite
Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night.

Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear
   Like a thin thread of gold against the sky,
And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear,
   And bade the pilot head her lustily
Against the nor’west gale, and all day long
Held on his way, and marked the rowers’ time with measured song.

And when the faint Corinthian hills were red
   Dropped anchor in a little sandy bay,
And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head,
   And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray,
And washed his limbs with oil, and from the hold
Brought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled,

And a rich robe stained with the fishers’ juice
   Which of some swarthy trader he had bought
Upon the sunny quay at Syracuse,
   And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought,
And by the questioning merchants made his way
Up through the soft and silver woods, and when the labouring day

Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud,
   Clomb the high hill, and with swift silent feet
Crept to the fane unnoticed by the crowd
   Of busy priests, and from some dark retreat
Watched the young swains his frolic playmates bring
The firstling of their little flock, and the shy shepherd fling

The crackling salt upon the flame, or hang
   His studded crook against the temple wall
To Her who keeps away the ravenous fang
   Of the base wolf from homestead and from stall;
And then the clear-voiced maidens ’gan to sing,
And to the altar each man brought some goodly offering,

A beechen cup brimming with milky foam,
   A fair cloth wrought with cunning imagery
Of hounds in chase, a waxen honey-comb
   Dripping with oozy gold which scarce the bee
Had ceased from building, a black skin of oil
Meet for the wrestlers, a great boar the fierce and white-tusked spoil

Stolen from Artemis that jealous maid
   To please Athena, and the dappled hide
Of a tall stag who in some mountain glade
   Had met the shaft; and then the herald cried,
And from the pillared precinct one by one
Went the glad Greeks well pleased that they their simple vows had done.

And the old priest put out the waning fires
   Save that one lamp whose restless ruby glowed
For ever in the cell, and the shrill lyres
   Came fainter on the wind, as down the road
In joyous dance these country folk did pass,
And with stout hands the warder closed the gates of polished brass.

Long time he lay and hardly dared to breathe,
   And heard the cadenced drip of spilt-out wine,
And the rose-petals falling from the wreath
   As the night breezes wandered through the shrine,
And seemed to be in some entrancèd swoon
Till through the open roof above the full and brimming moon

Flooded with sheeny waves the marble floor,
   When from his nook up leapt the venturous lad,
And flinging wide the cedar-carven door
   Beheld an awful image saffron-clad
And armed for battle! the gaunt Griffin glared
From the huge helm, and the long lance of wreck and ruin flared

Like a red rod of flame, stony and steeled
   The Gorgon’s head its leaden eyeballs rolled,
And writhed its snaky horrors through the shield,
   And gaped aghast with bloodless lips and cold
In passion impotent, while with blind gaze
The blinking owl between the feet hooted in shrill amaze.

The lonely fisher as he trimmed his lamp
   Far out at sea off Sunium, or cast
The net for tunnies, heard a brazen tramp
   Of horses smite the waves, and a wild blast
Divide the folded curtains of the night,
And knelt upon the little poop, and prayed in holy fright.

And guilty lovers in their venery
   Forgat a little while their stolen sweets,
Deeming they heard dread Dian’s bitter cry;
   And the grim watchmen on their lofty seats
Ran to their shields in haste precipitate,
Or strained black-bearded throats across the dusky parapet.

For round the temple rolled the clang of arms,
   And the twelve Gods leapt up in marble fear,
And the air quaked with dissonant alarums
   Till huge Poseidon shook his mighty spear,
And on the frieze the prancing horses neighed,
And the low tread of hurrying feet rang from the cavalcade.

Ready for death with parted lips he stood,
   And well content at such a price to see
That calm wide brow, that terrible maidenhood,
   The marvel of that pitiless chastity,
Ah! well content indeed, for never wight
Since Troy’s young shepherd prince had seen so wonderful a sight.

Ready for death he stood, but lo! the air
   Grew silent, and the horses ceased to neigh,
And off his brow he tossed the clustering hair,
   And from his limbs he throw the cloak away;
For whom would not such love make desperate?
And nigher came, and touched her throat, and with hands violate

Undid the cuirass, and the crocus gown,
   And bared the breasts of polished ivory,
Till from the waist the peplos falling down
   Left visible the secret mystery
Which to no lover will Athena show,
The grand cool flanks, the crescent thighs, the bossy hills of snow.

Those who have never known a lover’s sin
   Let them not read my ditty, it will be
To their dull ears so musicless and thin
   That they will have no joy of it, but ye
To whose wan cheeks now creeps the lingering smile,
Ye who have learned who Eros is,—O listen yet awhile.

A little space he let his greedy eyes
   Rest on the burnished image, till mere sight
Half swooned for surfeit of such luxuries,
   And then his lips in hungering delight
Fed on her lips, and round the towered neck
He flung his arms, nor cared at all his passion’s will to check.

Never I ween did lover hold such tryst,
   For all night long he murmured honeyed word,
And saw her sweet unravished limbs, and kissed
   Her pale and argent body undisturbed,
And paddled with the polished throat, and pressed
His hot and beating heart upon her chill and icy breast.

It was as if Numidian javelins
   Pierced through and through his wild and whirling brain,
And his nerves thrilled like throbbing violins
   In exquisite pulsation, and the pain
Was such sweet anguish that he never drew
His lips from hers till overhead the lark of warning flew.

They who have never seen the daylight peer
   Into a darkened room, and drawn the curtain,
And with dull eyes and wearied from some dear
   And worshipped body risen, they for certain
Will never know of what I try to sing,
How long the last kiss was, how fond and late his lingering.

The moon was girdled with a crystal rim,
   The sign which shipmen say is ominous
Of wrath in heaven, the wan stars were dim,
   And the low lightening east was tremulous
With the faint fluttering wings of flying dawn,
Ere from the silent sombre shrine his lover had withdrawn.

Down the steep rock with hurried feet and fast
   Clomb the brave lad, and reached the cave of Pan,
And heard the goat-foot snoring as he passed,
   And leapt upon a grassy knoll and ran
Like a young fawn unto an olive wood
Which in a shady valley by the well-built city stood;

And sought a little stream, which well he knew,
   For oftentimes with boyish careless shout
The green and crested grebe he would pursue,
   Or snare in woven net the silver trout,
And down amid the startled reeds he lay
Panting in breathless sweet affright, and waited for the day.

On the green bank he lay, and let one hand
   Dip in the cool dark eddies listlessly,
And soon the breath of morning came and fanned
   His hot flushed cheeks, or lifted wantonly
The tangled curls from off his forehead, while
He on the running water gazed with strange and secret smile.

And soon the shepherd in rough woollen cloak
   With his long crook undid the wattled cotes,
And from the stack a thin blue wreath of smoke
   Curled through the air across the ripening oats,
And on the hill the yellow house-dog bayed
As through the crisp and rustling fern the heavy cattle strayed.

And when the light-foot mower went afield
   Across the meadows laced with threaded dew,
And the sheep bleated on the misty weald,
   And from its nest the waking corncrake flew,
Some woodmen saw him lying by the stream
And marvelled much that any lad so beautiful could seem,

Nor deemed him born of mortals, and one said,
   ‘It is young Hylas, that false runaway
Who with a Naiad now would make his bed
   Forgetting Herakles,’ but others, ‘Nay,
It is Narcissus, his own paramour,
Those are the fond and crimson lips no woman can allure.’

And when they nearer came a third one cried,
   ‘It is young Dionysos who has hid
His spear and fawnskin by the river side
   Weary of hunting with the Bassarid,
And wise indeed were we away to fly:
They live not long who on the gods immortal come to spy.’

So turned they back, and feared to look behind,
   And told the timid swain how they had seen
Amid the reeds some woodland god reclined,
   And no man dared to cross the open green,
And on that day no olive-tree was slain,
Nor rushes cut, but all deserted was the fair domain,

Save when the neat-herd’s lad, his empty pail
   Well slung upon his back, with leap and bound
Raced on the other side, and stopped to hail,
   Hoping that he some comrade new had found,
And gat no answer, and then half afraid
Passed on his simple way, or down the still and silent glade

A little girl ran laughing from the farm,
   Not thinking of love’s secret mysteries,
And when she saw the white and gleaming arm
   And all his manlihood, with longing eyes
Whose passion mocked her sweet virginity
Watched him awhile, and then stole back sadly and wearily.

Far off he heard the city’s hum and noise,
   And now and then the shriller laughter where
The passionate purity of brown-limbed boys
   Wrestled or raced in the clear healthful air,
And now and then a little tinkling bell
As the shorn wether led the sheep down to the mossy well.

Through the grey willows danced the fretful gnat,
   The grasshopper chirped idly from the tree,
In sleek and oily coat the water-rat
   Breasting the little ripples manfully
Made for the wild-duck’s nest, from bough to bough
Hopped the shy finch, and the huge tortoise crept across the slough.

On the faint wind floated the silky seeds
   As the bright scythe swept through the waving grass,
The ouzel-cock splashed circles in the reeds
   And flecked with silver whorls the forest’s glass,
Which scarce had caught again its imagery
Ere from its bed the dusky tench leapt at the dragon-fly.

But little care had he for any thing
   Though up and down the beech the squirrel played,
And from the copse the linnet ’gan to sing
   To its brown mate its sweetest serenade;
Ah! little care indeed, for he had seen
The breasts of Pallas and the naked wonder of the Queen.

But when the herdsman called his straggling goats
   With whistling pipe across the rocky road,
And the shard-beetle with its trumpet-notes
   Boomed through the darkening woods, and seemed to bode
Of coming storm, and the belated crane
Passed homeward like a shadow, and the dull big drops of rain

Fell on the pattering fig-leaves, up he rose,
   And from the gloomy forest went his way
Past sombre homestead and wet orchard-close,
   And came at last unto a little quay,
And called his mates aboard, and took his seat
On the high poop, and pushed from land, and loosed the dripping sheet,

And steered across the bay, and when nine suns
   Passed down the long and laddered way of gold,
And nine pale moons had breathed their orisons
   To the chaste stars their confessors, or told
Their dearest secret to the downy moth
That will not fly at noonday, through the foam and surging froth

Came a great owl with yellow sulphurous eyes
   And lit upon the ship, whose timbers creaked
As though the lading of three argosies
   Were in the hold, and flapped its wings and shrieked,
And darkness straightway stole across the deep,
Sheathed was Orion’s sword, dread Mars himself fled down the steep,

And the moon hid behind a tawny mask
   Of drifting cloud, and from the ocean’s marge
Rose the red plume, the huge and hornèd casque,
   The seven-cubit spear, the brazen targe!
And clad in bright and burnished panoply
Athena strode across the stretch of sick and shivering sea!

To the dull sailors’ sight her loosened looks
   Seemed like the jagged storm-rack, and her feet
Only the spume that floats on hidden rocks,
   And, marking how the rising waters beat
Against the rolling ship, the pilot cried
To the young helmsman at the stern to luff to windward side

But he, the overbold adulterer,
   A dear profaner of great mysteries,
An ardent amorous idolater,
   When he beheld those grand relentless eyes
Laughed loud for joy, and crying out ‘I come’
Leapt from the lofty poop into the chill and churning foam.

Then fell from the high heaven one bright star,
   One dancer left the circling galaxy,
And back to Athens on her clattering car
   In all the pride of venged divinity
Pale Pallas swept with shrill and steely clank,
And a few gurgling bubbles rose where her boy lover sank.

And the mast shuddered as the gaunt owl flew
   With mocking hoots after the wrathful Queen,
And the old pilot bade the trembling crew
   Hoist the big sail, and told how he had seen
Close to the stern a dim and giant form,
And like a dipping swallow the stout ship dashed through the storm.

And no man dared to speak of Charmides
   Deeming that he some evil thing had wrought,
And when they reached the strait Symplegades
   They beached their galley on the shore, and sought
The toll-gate of the city hastily,
And in the market showed their brown and pictured pottery.

II.

But some good Triton-god had ruth, and bare
   The boy’s drowned body back to Grecian land,
And mermaids combed his dank and dripping hair
   And smoothed his brow, and loosed his clenching hand;
Some brought sweet spices from far Araby,
And others bade the halcyon sing her softest lullaby.

And when he neared his old Athenian home,
   A mighty billow rose up suddenly
Upon whose oily back the clotted foam
   Lay diapered in some strange fantasy,
And clasping him unto its glassy breast
Swept landward, like a white-maned steed upon a venturous quest!

Now where Colonos leans unto the sea
   There lies a long and level stretch of lawn;
The rabbit knows it, and the mountain bee
   For it deserts Hymettus, and the Faun
Is not afraid, for never through the day
Comes a cry ruder than the shout of shepherd lads at play.

But often from the thorny labyrinth
   And tangled branches of the circling wood
The stealthy hunter sees young Hyacinth
   Hurling the polished disk, and draws his hood
Over his guilty gaze, and creeps away,
Nor dares to wind his horn, or—else at the first break of day

The Dryads come and throw the leathern ball
   Along the reedy shore, and circumvent
Some goat-eared Pan to be their seneschal
   For fear of bold Poseidon’s ravishment,
And loose their girdles, with shy timorous eyes,
Lest from the surf his azure arms and purple beard should rise.

On this side and on that a rocky cave,
   Hung with the yellow-belled laburnum, stands
Smooth is the beach, save where some ebbing wave
   Leaves its faint outline etched upon the sands,
As though it feared to be too soon forgot
By the green rush, its playfellow,—and yet, it is a spot

So small, that the inconstant butterfly
   Could steal the hoarded money from each flower
Ere it was noon, and still not satisfy
   Its over-greedy love,—within an hour
A sailor boy, were he but rude enow
To land and pluck a garland for his galley’s painted prow,

Would almost leave the little meadow bare,
   For it knows nothing of great pageantry,
Only a few narcissi here and there
   Stand separate in sweet austerity,
Dotting the unmown grass with silver stars,
And here and there a daffodil waves tiny scimitars.

Hither the billow brought him, and was glad
   Of such dear servitude, and where the land
Was virgin of all waters laid the lad
   Upon the golden margent of the strand,
And like a lingering lover oft returned
To kiss those pallid limbs which once with intense fire burned,

Ere the wet seas had quenched that holocaust,
   That self-fed flame, that passionate lustihead,
Ere grisly death with chill and nipping frost
   Had withered up those lilies white and red
Which, while the boy would through the forest range,
Answered each other in a sweet antiphonal counter-change.

And when at dawn the wood-nymphs, hand-in-hand,
   Threaded the bosky dell, their satyr spied
The boy’s pale body stretched upon the sand,
   And feared Poseidon’s treachery, and cried,
And like bright sunbeams flitting through a glade
Each startled Dryad sought some safe and leafy ambuscade.

Save one white girl, who deemed it would not be
   So dread a thing to feel a sea-god’s arms
Crushing her breasts in amorous tyranny,
   And longed to listen to those subtle charms
Insidious lovers weave when they would win
Some fencèd fortress, and stole back again, nor thought it sin

To yield her treasure unto one so fair,
   And lay beside him, thirsty with love’s drouth,
Called him soft names, played with his tangled hair,
   And with hot lips made havoc of his mouth
Afraid he might not wake, and then afraid
Lest he might wake too soon, fled back, and then, fond renegade,

Returned to fresh assault, and all day long
   Sat at his side, and laughed at her new toy,
And held his hand, and sang her sweetest song,
   Then frowned to see how froward was the boy
Who would not with her maidenhood entwine,
Nor knew that three days since his eyes had looked on Proserpine;

Nor knew what sacrilege his lips had done,
   But said, ‘He will awake, I know him well,
He will awake at evening when the sun
   Hangs his red shield on Corinth’s citadel;
This sleep is but a cruel treachery
To make me love him more, and in some cavern of the sea

Deeper than ever falls the fisher’s line
   Already a huge Triton blows his horn,
And weaves a garland from the crystalline
   And drifting ocean-tendrils to adorn
The emerald pillars of our bridal bed,
For sphered in foaming silver, and with coral crownèd head,

We two will sit upon a throne of pearl,
   And a blue wave will be our canopy,
And at our feet the water-snakes will curl
   In all their amethystine panoply
Of diamonded mail, and we will mark
The mullets swimming by the mast of some storm-foundered bark,

Vermilion-finned with eyes of bossy gold
   Like flakes of crimson light, and the great deep
His glassy-portaled chamber will unfold,
   And we will see the painted dolphins sleep
Cradled by murmuring halcyons on the rocks
Where Proteus in quaint suit of green pastures his monstrous flocks.

And tremulous opal-hued anemones
   Will wave their purple fringes where we tread
Upon the mirrored floor, and argosies
   Of fishes flecked with tawny scales will thread
The drifting cordage of the shattered wreck,
And honey-coloured amber beads our twining limbs will deck.’

But when that baffled Lord of War the Sun
   With gaudy pennon flying passed away
Into his brazen House, and one by one
   The little yellow stars began to stray
Across the field of heaven, ah! then indeed
She feared his lips upon her lips would never care to feed,

And cried, ‘Awake, already the pale moon
   Washes the trees with silver, and the wave
Creeps grey and chilly up this sandy dune,
   The croaking frogs are out, and from the cave
The nightjar shrieks, the fluttering bats repass,
And the brown stoat with hollow flanks creeps through the dusky grass.

Nay, though thou art a god, be not so coy,
   For in yon stream there is a little reed
That often whispers how a lovely boy
   Lay with her once upon a grassy mead,
Who when his cruel pleasure he had done
Spread wings of rustling gold and soared aloft into the sun.

Be not so coy, the laurel trembles still
   With great Apollo’s kisses, and the fir
Whose clustering sisters fringe the seaward hill
   Hath many a tale of that bold ravisher
Whom men call Boreas, and I have seen
The mocking eyes of Hermes through the poplar’s silvery sheen.

Even the jealous Naiads call me fair,
   And every morn a young and ruddy swain
Woos me with apples and with locks of hair,
   And seeks to soothe my virginal disdain
By all the gifts the gentle wood-nymphs love;
But yesterday he brought to me an iris-plumaged dove

With little crimson feet, which with its store
   Of seven spotted eggs the cruel lad
Had stolen from the lofty sycamore
   At daybreak, when her amorous comrade had
Flown off in search of berried juniper
Which most they love; the fretful wasp, that earliest vintager

Of the blue grapes, hath not persistency
   So constant as this simple shepherd-boy
For my poor lips, his joyous purity
   And laughing sunny eyes might well decoy
A Dryad from her oath to Artemis;
For very beautiful is he, his mouth was made to kiss;

His argent forehead, like a rising moon
   Over the dusky hills of meeting brows,
Is crescent shaped, the hot and Tyrian noon
   Leads from the myrtle-grove no goodlier spouse
For Cytheræa, the first silky down
Fringes his blushing cheeks, and his young limbs are strong and brown;

And he is rich, and fat and fleecy herds
   Of bleating sheep upon his meadows lie,
And many an earthen bowl of yellow curds
   Is in his homestead for the thievish fly
To swim and drown in, the pink clover mead
Keeps its sweet store for him, and he can pipe on oaten reed.

And yet I love him not; it was for thee
   I kept my love; I knew that thou would’st come
To rid me of this pallid chastity,
   Thou fairest flower of the flowerless foam
Of all the wide Ægean, brightest star
Of ocean’s azure heavens where the mirrored planets are!

I knew that thou would’st come, for when at first
   The dry wood burgeoned, and the sap of spring
Swelled in my green and tender bark or burst
   To myriad multitudinous blossoming
Which mocked the midnight with its mimic moons
That did not dread the dawn, and first the thrushes’ rapturous tunes

Startled the squirrel from its granary,
   And cuckoo flowers fringed the narrow lane,
Through my young leaves a sensuous ecstasy
   Crept like new wine, and every mossy vein
Throbbed with the fitful pulse of amorous blood,
And the wild winds of passion shook my slim stem’s maidenhood.

The trooping fawns at evening came and laid
   Their cool black noses on my lowest boughs,
And on my topmost branch the blackbird made
   A little nest of grasses for his spouse,
And now and then a twittering wren would light
On a thin twig which hardly bare the weight of such delight.

I was the Attic shepherd’s trysting place,
   Beneath my shadow Amaryllis lay,
And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis chase
   The timorous girl, till tired out with play
She felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair,
And turned, and looked, and fled no more from such delightful snare.

Then come away unto my ambuscade
   Where clustering woodbine weaves a canopy
For amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shade
   Of Paphian myrtles seems to sanctify
The dearest rites of love; there in the cool
And green recesses of its farthest depth there is pool,

The ouzel’s haunt, the wild bee’s pasturage,
   For round its rim great creamy lilies float
Through their flat leaves in verdant anchorage,
   Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boat
Steered by a dragon-fly,—be not afraid
To leave this wan and wave-kissed shore, surely the place was made

For lovers such as we; the Cyprian Queen,
   One arm around her boyish paramour,
Strays often there at eve, and I have seen
   The moon strip off her misty vestiture
For young Endymion’s eyes; be not afraid,
The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret glade.

Nay if thou will’st, back to the beating brine,
   Back to the boisterous billow let us go,
And walk all day beneath the hyaline
   Huge vault of Neptune’s watery portico,
And watch the purple monsters of the deep
Sport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen Xiphias leap.

For if my mistress find me lying here
   She will not ruth or gentle pity show,
But lay her boar-spear down, and with austere
   Relentless fingers string the cornel bow,
And draw the feathered notch against her breast,
And loose the archèd cord; aye, even now upon the quest

I hear her hurrying feet,—awake, awake,
   Thou laggard in love’s battle! once at least
Let me drink deep of passion’s wine, and slake
   My parchèd being with the nectarous feast
Which even gods affect!  O come, Love, come,
Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine azure home.’

Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering trees
   Shook, and the leaves divided, and the air
Grew conscious of a god, and the grey seas
   Crawled backward, and a long and dismal blare
Blew from some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed,
And like a flame a barbèd reed flew whizzing down the glade.

And where the little flowers of her breast
   Just brake into their milky blossoming,
This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest,
   Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering,
And ploughed a bloody furrow with its dart,
And dug a long red road, and cleft with wingèd death her heart.

Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry
   On the boy’s body fell the Dryad maid,
Sobbing for incomplete virginity,
   And raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead,
And all the pain of things unsatisfied,
And the bright drops of crimson youth crept down her throbbing side.

Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan,
   And very pitiful to see her die
Ere she had yielded up her sweets, or known
   The joy of passion, that dread mystery
Which not to know is not to live at all,
And yet to know is to be held in death’s most deadly thrall.

But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere,
   Who with Adonis all night long had lain
Within some shepherd’s hut in Arcady,
   On team of silver doves and gilded wain
Was journeying Paphos-ward, high up afar
From mortal ken between the mountains and the morning star,

And when low down she spied the hapless pair,
   And heard the Oread’s faint despairing cry,
Whose cadence seemed to play upon the air
   As though it were a viol, hastily
She bade her pigeons fold each straining plume,
And dropt to earth, and reached the strand, and saw their dolorous doom.

For as a gardener turning back his head
   To catch the last notes of the linnet, mows
With careless scythe too near some flower bed,
   And cuts the thorny pillar of the rose,
And with the flower’s loosened loneliness
Strews the brown mould; or as some shepherd lad in wantonness

Driving his little flock along the mead
   Treads down two daffodils, which side by aide
Have lured the lady-bird with yellow brede
   And made the gaudy moth forget its pride,
Treads down their brimming golden chalices
Under light feet which were not made for such rude ravages;