Hyacinth

Your anger charms me,and yet all the timeI think of chaste, slight hands,veined snow;snow craters filledwith first wild-flowerlets;glow of ice-gentian,whitest violet;snow cratersand the ice ridgespilling light;dawn and the loverchaste dawn leaves bereft--I think of theseand snow-cooled Phrygian wine.

Your anger charms me subtlyand I knowthat you would takethe still handswhere I’d rest;you would despoilfor very joy of theft;list, lady,I would give you one last hint:quench your red mouthin some cold forest lake,cover your russet lockswith arum leaf,quench out the colour,still the fevered glance,cover your want,your fire insatiate,I can not match your fervour,nay, nor still my achewith anybut white hands inviolate.

Take the red spoilof grape and pomegranate,the red camellia,the most, most red rose;take all the garden spills,inveterate,prodigal spenderjust as summer goes,the red scales of the deep in-folded spice,the Indian, Persian and the Syrian pink,their scent undauntedeven in that faint,unmistakable fragranceof the late tuberose,(heavy its petals,eye-lids of dark eyesthat open languorousand more languorous close--the east,further than scentof our wind-smitten isle,)take these:

O lady, take them,prodigalI cull and offer this and this and theselast definite whorlsof clustered peonies,the last, the firstthat stained our stainless ledgeof blue and whiteand the white foam of sea,rocks,and that strait ledgewhiter than the rockthe Parians breakfrom their enchanted hill;take, lady,but leave me with my weed and shelland those slight, hovering gull-wings that recallsilver of far Hymettus’ asphodel.

Take allfor you have taken everything,but do not let me see you taking this;Adonis lying spent with Venus’ care,Adonis dying were a lesser achethan this,to have even your slightest breathbreathe in the crystal airwhere he takes breath.

Take allfor you have taken everything,save the broad ledge of seawhich no man takes,take allfor you have taken mirth and easeand all the small delightsof simple poets,the lilt of rhyme,the sway and lift and fall,the first spring goldyour fire has scorched to ash,the fresh windsthat go haltwhere you have passed,the Tyrian irisI so greatly loved,its dark head spearedthrough its wet spray of leaves.

Take all,but ah, lady, a fool, a poetmay even know when you have taken all:up on the mountain slopeone last flower cleavesto the wet marge of ice,the blue of snow,keep all your riotin the swales below,of grape and autumn,take all, taking these,for you and autumn yetcan not prevailagainst that flame, that flower,(ice, spark or jewel,)the cyclamen,parting its white cyclamen leaves.

O, I am ill with dustas you with stain,O, I am worthless,weary, world-bedragged,nevertheless to mountainsstill the rainfalls on the tangleof dead under-brush,freshens the loam,the earth and broken leavesfor that hoar-frostof later star or flower,the fragile hostof Greek anemones.

Say I am little meetto call the youth,say I have little magicto enchant,but is that reasonwhy your flaring willshould sweep and scorch,should lap and seethe and fillwith last red flamethe tender ditch and runnelwhich the spring freshetsoon must fill again?

White violetshave no placeon your hot brow;how can I bring youwhat the spring must bring?what can I offer?lush and heady mallow?the fire-grassor the serpent-spottedfire-flower?O take them,for I stand a ruinous cloudbetween youand the chaste uplifted hill.

O take them swiftlyand more swiftly go,for spring is distant yet,for spring is far;you have your tense, short spaceof blazing sun,your melons, vines,your terraces of fruit;now all you have,all, all I gladly givewho long but for the ridge,the crest and hollow,the lift and fall,the reach and distant ledgeof the sun-smitten,wind-indented snow.

Birds from Parnassus,swiftyou dartfrom the loftiest peaks;you hover, dip,you sway and perchundaunted on the gold-set cornice;you eagle,god’s majestic legate,who tear, who strikesong-birds in mid-flight,my arrow whistles toward you,swiftbe off;

ah drift,ah driftso soft, so light,your scarlet foot so deftly placedto waft you neatlyto the pavement,swan, swanand do you really thinkyour songthat tunes the harp of Helios,will save youfrom the arrow-flight?turn back,backto the lake of Delos;

lest all the song notespause and breakacross a blood-stained throatgone songless,turn back,backere it be too late,to wave-swept Delos.

Alas, and still another,what?you’d place your mean nestin the cornice?sing, singmy arrow-string,tell to the thiefthat plaits its housefor fledglingsin the god’s own house,that still the Alpheuswhispers sweetto lurethe birdlets to the place,that still the Isthmusshines with forests;on the white statuesmust be foundno straw nor litterof bird-down,Phœbos must have his portal fair;

and yet, O birds,though this my labouris set,though this my task is clear,though I must slay you,I, god’s servant,I who take heremy bread and lifeand sweep the temple,still I swearthat I would save you,birds or spirits,winged songsthat tell to men god’s will;

still, stillthe Alpheus whispers clearto lure the bird-folkto its waters,ah stillthe Isthmusblossoms fair;lest all the song notespause and breakacross a blood-stained throatgone songless,turn back,backere it be too late,to wave-swept Delos.