THE RING

_The ring is lost! The wedding ring is gone!_

A folk song.

My mother planned a wedding feast for me And chose me for a wife a Nereid, A tender flower of beauty and of faith.

My mother wished to wed me with thy charms, O Fairy Life, thou first of Nereids!

And hastily she goes to seek advice, Begging for gold from every sorceress And powerful witch, and gold from forty brides Whose wedding crowns are fresh upon their brows; And making with the gold a ring enchanted, She puts it on my finger and she binds With golden bond my youthful human flesh To the strange Fairy--how strange a wedding ring!--

I was the boy that always older grew With the transporting pa.s.sion of a pair Bethrothed who, lured by longing, countenance Their wedding moment as an endless feast Upon a bridal bed of lily white.

The boy I was that always older grew Gold-bound with Life, the Fairy conqueress; The boy I was that always older grew With love and thirst unquenchable for Life; The boy I was that always older grew Destined to tread upon a path untrod Amidst the light, illumined. I was he Whose brow like an Olympian victor's shone And like the man's who tamed Bucephalus.

I was the nimble dolphin with gold wings, Arion's watchful and quick deliverer.

But then, one day,--I know not whence and how-- Upon a sh.o.r.e of sunburned sands, the hour Of early evening saddened with dark clouds, I wrestled with a strange black boy new-come, Risen to life from the great sea's abyss; And in the savage spite of that long struggle, The ring fell from my finger and was gone!

Did the great earth engulf it? Did the wave Swallow it? I know not. But this I know: For ever since, the binding spell is rent!

And Fairy Life, the first of Nereids, My own bethrothed, that was my slave and queen, Vanished away like a fleet cloud of smoke!

And ever since, from my first-blooming youth To the first flakes of silver that now fall On the black forest of my hair, since then, Some power dumb and dreadful holds me bound With a mere shadow fleeting and unknown That seems not to exist, yet ever longs And vainly strives to enter into being.

And now I am Life's widowed mate and hapless, Life's great and careless patient! Woe is me!

And I am like the fair Alcithoe, Daughter of the ancient king, who changed her form And as a sign of the G.o.ds' vengeful wrath Is now instead of princess a night-bat!

THE CORD GRa.s.s FESTIVAL

See far away, what a glad festival The golden gra.s.ses on the meadow weave!

A festival thrice-fragrant with blond flowers!

With the sweet sunrise sweetly wakening, I also wish to join the festival And, like a treasure reaper, to embrace Ma.s.ses of flowers blond and fresh with dew, And then to squander all my flower treasure At my love's feet, for my heart's ruling queen.

But the gold-spangled meadow spreads too deep; And, just as mourning for some dead deprives A life rejoicing with its twenty years Of its light raiments of a lily-white, So is my swift and merry way cut short By a bad way that lies between, without An end, beset with brambles and with marshes!

The th.o.r.n.y plants tear like an enemy's claws; And like bird-lime the bad plain's mire ensnares My feet among the brambles and the marshes, Where, in the parching sun's enflaming shafts, The brine, like silver lightning, strikes my eyes!

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 gra.s.ses 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 s.p.a.ce. 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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-n.o.ble 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!