Heliodora

He and I sought together,over the spattered table,rhymes and flowers,gifts for a name.

He said, among others,I will bring(and the phrase was just and good,but not as good as mine,)“the narcissus that loves the rain.”

We strove for a name,while the light of the lamps burnt thinand the outer dawn came in,a ghost, the last at the feastor the first,to sit withinwith the two that remainedto quibble in flowers and verseover a girl’s name.

He said, “the rain loving,”I said, “the narcissus, drunk,drunk with the rain.”

Yet I had lostfor he said,“the rose, the lover’s gift,is loved of love,”he said it,“loved of love;”I waited, even as he spoke,to see the room filled with a light,as when in winterthe embers catch in a windwhen a room is dank;so it would be filled, I thought,our room with a lightwhen he said(and he said it first,)“the rose, the lover’s delight,is loved of love,”but the light was the same.

Then he caught,seeing the fire in my eyes,my fire, my fever, perhaps,for he leanedwith the purple winestained on his sleeve,and said this:“did you ever thinka girl’s mouthcaught in a kiss,is a lily that laughs?”

I had not.I saw it nowas men must see it forever afterwards;no poet could write again,“the red-lily,a girl’s laugh caught in a kiss;”it was his to pour in the vatfrom which all poets dip and quaff,for poets are brothers in this.

So I saw the fire in his eyes,it was almost my fire,(he was younger,)I saw the face so white,my heart beat,it was almost my phrase;I said, “surprise the muses,take them by surprise;it is late,rather it is dawn-rise,those ladies sleep, the nine,our own king’s mistresses.”

A name to rhyme,flowers to bring to a name,what was one girl faint and shy,with eyes like the myrtle,(I said: “her underlidsare rather like myrtle,”)to vie with the nine?

Let him take the name,he had the rhymes,“the rose, loved of love,the lily, a mouth that laughs,”he had the gift,“the scented crocus,the purple hyacinth,”what was one girl to the nine?

He said:“I will make her a wreath;”he said:“I will write it thus:

I will bring you the lily that laughs,I will twinewith soft narcissus, the myrtle,sweet crocus, white violet,the purple hyacinth, and last,the rose, loved-of-love,that these may drip on your hairthe less soft flowers,may mingle sweet with the sweetof Heliodora’s locks,myrrh-curled.”

(He wrote myrrh-curled,I think, the first.)

I said:“they sleep, the nine,”when he shouted swift and passionate:“that for the nine!above the hillsthe sun is about to wake,and to-day white violetsshine beside white liliesadrift on the mountain side;to-day the narcissus opensthat loves the rain.”

I watched him to the door,catching his robeas the wine-bowl crashed to the floor,spilling a few wet lees,(ah, his purple hyacinth!)I saw him out of the door,I thought:there will never be a poetin all the centuries after this,who will dare write,after my friend’s verse,“a girl’s mouthis a lily kissed.”