And one day, sinner, thine own mother gave To thee the wonder-working holy image To carry it to the sacred festival Of the illumined church with open gates Calling upon its throngs of worshippers.

And on thy way, the luring harlot watched And stripped thee of thy mind; and as thy hands Struggled to clasp her, down the image fell, The sacred image, in the ditch's filth!

And forthwith even there, the plague began To visit thee! And crumbling down, thou didst Begin to groan and tremble nearer death Than the dead corpse on which the ravens feed!

And Satan crouching upon thee rejoices!

And seeing it, thou strugglest painfully, Stretchest thy hands towards the ditch's filth, And darest a prayer to the saint defiled, Though still enflamed by thirst for the vile kiss!

A TALK WITH THE FLOWERS

Upon my pa.s.sing, slow or swift, by you I lingered not, nor stooped to pluck you, flowers!

I saw you as a vision skyward roaming, And I adored you just as thought and sky!

My hand reached not to touch you sinfully, My flowers! For what is most beautiful Is also most remote. You were for me The music that the wind brings on its wings In perfect strains directly to the heart.

I wished your dazzling could remain as that Of castles barred and inaccessible.

From far thy fragrance came to me, O jasmine; And thy gleam, lily, like the eyes' light-kisses!

But since my darling child lay down to sleep The bitter sleep that knows no wakening, I am the cruel reaper always bending Above you, gathering you one by one, And ever binding you in royal garlands, And ever weaving you into rich robes For him! I wish to play new plays with him, And spread you over him as mine embrace!

I wish to raise him as a flower garden Breathing into his grave the flower soul Of an immortal April. Oh, I wish ...

Weak though I am, would all earth's verdancy Were a long dream and kiss for my beloved!

Would that whatever is beyond man's touch, Air-born, transcending earth, or fleeting, all That has a sunbeam as its heart, a breeze as body, Fair vision, thought, or heaven--would that I Could close them into forms and scatter them Upon his flower-clad grave with you, sweet flowers!

In my paternal love, pure white, the flames Of pa.s.sion burn; and then, the yellow languor Of a sick man! Thus did I love him, flowers!

His father though they called me, I was his lover!

O flowers, did you know it? Was your life, So pure and little, ever touched by such A woe? Does not a quenchless longing stir you As you grow on the selfsame flower bough?

The body of my child, sent up from depths Unfathomed of a secret Fate unhoped, Was an epiphany of the fair bride, The bride undreamable, intangible Of a G.o.d's dream! Was he of mine own blood?

I never thought whether he was to live, Grow, or advance in thought and deed; I was Drunk with his luring wine, his eyes, his face, His gait! The breath of blest Makaria Had blown on him! The stranger's song revolved Before my mind: "Thou little line so fine, Written with roses, line that wert his mouth, How dost thou give birth to that mighty trembling?"[22]

How often when he turned away his lips So beautiful in careless weariness From mine embrace, I felt the torturings Of a disease and drank the bitter draughts Of jealousy! How often, when he lay Reclining on mine arms and breathing gently, I thought I held the graspless image of Beauty light-born, and said: "What is there more For me to hope?" O flowers, did you know it?

Can you, too, mingle your little hidden hearts Fed with sweet honey, the pure frankincense Of a thrice-blue and earth-transcending worship, With love's uneasy little tremblings?

Of jealousy! How often, when he lay Reclining on mine arms and breathing gently, I thought I held the graspless image of Beauty light-born, and said: "What is there more For me to hope?" O flowers, did you know it?

Can you, too, mingle your little hidden hearts Fed with sweet honey, the pure frankincense Of a thrice-blue and earth-transcending worship, With love's uneasy little tremblings?

Oh, The bitterest and saddest blows, the blows That know no healing on this earth of ours, Come from our dearest! Thus he fled and left me A bitterness beyond all sorrow's pangs, O little flowers, flowers of dark death!

TO MY WIFE

Here bloomed our home; the young plant verdant blossomed In the cool shade of the fresh green grape-vine; And here the mystic moon, entwined in green, Descended like a first-seen ghost on us.

Here the two fountains of desire refreshed Our years: the one, before our eyes; the others, In dreams. The fair Muse silenced here care's crickets And stirred the sacred frenzy of the lyre.

Here we enjoyed our first-born's flutterings; And here the little gleaming face and round, Our second fruit, maddened us with pure joy!

As the unhoped return of a longed friend, Here we received one day into our bosom The transitory child beyond compare, The third one, who transformed the worldly air About us into flowing wine for G.o.ds, An offering unto the gleaming light Of high Olympus, dwelling of the blessed!

Here was thy youth, even when care oppressed thee, A fair Venetian painting, the blithe work Of a light-beaming t.i.tian, that revealed Pure shining joy in thy lithe body's form.

Here bloomed our home; the young plant verdant blossomed, Hidden in the cool shade of the green vine.

Now, nothing remains. Only the mystic moon Weeps in a palace voiceless, wide, and gloomy!

The life that died here wished for April as Grave-digger, and a flower-bed as grave.

Oh, who had cursed it? Nothing but a tomb Was found for it! A tomb unfit and graceless!

THE ANSWER

Take me and hear me, Hamadryads fair, And Aegipans, Wood-Nymphs, and shepherd G.o.ds!

The bridal beds are set! The forest glades, In flurry! The Flower Festival has come!

The bacchic revelry bursts forth in glow And frenzy! Where is nature and where is Its end? I know not whether I am myself; Great Pan, it seems, dwells in my bosom here.

O wonder! I do live the holy life And wild of purest nature's elements!

O G.o.d of the golden crown, the three fair Graces And the Nine Sisters of the Song gave me The gift of tranquil visions beautiful!

I filled me with the foam-begotten beauty Of all! I hear the nightingales' sweet song In answer to the song of Sophocles!

The woes of Aeschylus resound prophetic, Ocean-born! Face to face with me, as swift As glance, green-clad Atlantides rise forth From the abyss and sink in it again.

Phoenicians battling with the sea brought me From far away; I am the reveller World-wandering! Arts, talks, and images Are bristling in the air! Take me, O Nymphs Into your bosom! Satyrs, hear my words!

Yet Satyrs, Centaurs, Hamadryad Nymphs, And golden-spoken h.e.l.lades at once Made answer to my pleading with one voice From cities, mountains, forests, cliffs, and plains:

"G.o.ds' wine is not for thee, O reveller!"

And the lithe Tanagraean maiden spoke With awe-inspiring prophetess Ca.s.sandra, Ivy-crowned Maenads, G.o.ds Olympian, And the song-nourished h.e.l.lades; they spoke From the far cave of fair Calypso to The wisdom-haunted Alexandria:

"Silence! Pale monk and idle chatterer!

Silence! Turn back to thy lone cloister cell."

And the Pindaric heroes laugh in scorn With the white G.o.ddesses of marble wrought By Scopas' hand; laugh, and their laughter-peals Are echoed loud and deep from far away!

THOUGHT

More than the G.o.dlike gleams of sculptured stone, More than the golden rhythms the poet weaves, Who knows if a good act unknown, some wound's Balsam, shines not with brighter lasting beams?

Who knows if for some G.o.d's unfailing ear, The dogged sin and filthy vice are not A thrice-wise and tempestuous harmony Of melodies sung by Virtue's lips serene?