Artemis to Actaeon

THOU couldst not look on me and live: so runsThe mortal legend--thou that couldst not liveNor look on me (so the divine decree)!That saw'st me in the cloud, the wave, the bough,The clod commoved with April, and the shapesLurking 'twixt lid and eye-ball in the dark.Mocked I thee not in every guise of life,Hid in girls' eyes, a naiad in her well,Wooed through their laughter, and like echo fled,Luring thee down the primal silencesWhere the heart hushes and the flesh is dumb?Nay, was not I the tide that drew thee outRelentlessly from the detaining shore,Forth from the home-lights and the hailing voices,Forth from the last faint headland's failing line,Till I enveloped thee from verge to vergeAnd hid thee in the hollow of my being?And still, because between us hung the veil,The myriad-tinted veil of sense, thy feetRefused their rest, thy hands the gifts of life,Thy heart its losses, lest some lesser faceShould blur mine image in thine upturned soulEre death had stamped it there. This was thy thought.And mine?

The gods, they say, have all: not so!This have they--flocks on every hill, the blueSpirals of incense and the amber dripOf lucid honey-comb on sylvan shrines,First-chosen weanlings, doves immaculate,Twin-cooing in the osier-plaited cage,And ivy-garlands glaucous with the dew:Man's wealth, man's servitude, but not himself!And so they pale, for lack of warmth they wane,Freeze to the marble of their images,And, pinnacled on man's subserviency,Through the thick sacrificial haze discernUnheeding lives and loves, as some cold peakThrough icy mists may enviously descryWarm vales unzoned to the all-fruitful sun.So they along an immortalityOf endless-envistaed homage strain their gaze,If haply some rash votary, empty-urned,But light of foot, with all-adventuring hand,Break rank, fling past the people and the priest,Up the last step, on to the inmost shrine,And there, the sacred curtain in his clutch,Drop dead of seeing--while the others prayed!Yes, this we wait for, this renews us, thisIncarnates us, pale people of your dreams,Who are but what you make us, wood or stone,Or cold chryselephantine hung with gems,Or else the beating purpose of your life,Your sword, your clay, the note your pipe pursues,The face that haunts your pillow, or the lightScarce visible over leagues of labouring sea!O thus through use to reign again, to drinkThe cup of peradventure to the lees,For one dear instant disimmortalisedIn giving immortality!So dream the gods upon their listless thrones.Yet sometimes, when the votary appears,With death-affronting forehead and glad eyes,Too young, they rather muse, too frail thou art,And shall we rob some girl of saffron veilAnd nuptial garland for so slight a thing?And so to their incurious loves return.

Not so with thee; for some indeed there areWho would behold the truth and then returnTo pine among the semblances--but IDivined in thee the questing foot that neverRevisits the cold hearth of yesterdayOr calls achievement home. I from afarBeheld thee fashioned for one hour's high use,Nor meant to slake oblivion drop by drop.Long, long hadst thou inhabited my dreams,Surprising me as harts surprise a pool,Stealing to drink at midnight; I divinedThee rash to reach the heart of life, and lieBosom to bosom in occasion's arms.And said: Because I love thee thou shalt die!

For immortality is not to rangeUnlimited through vast Olympian days,Or sit in dull dominion over time;But this--to drink fate's utmost at a draught,Nor feel the wine grow stale upon the lip,To scale the summit of some soaring moment,Nor know the dulness of the long descent,To snatch the crown of life and seal it upSecure forever in the vaults of death!

And this was thine: to lose thyself in me,Relive in my renewal, and becomeThe light of other lives, a quenchless torchPassed on from hand to hand, till men are dustAnd the last garland withers from my shrine.