Fearful fitful wings of the doves departing, Saw not how the bosom of Aphrodite Shook with weeping, saw not her shaken raiment, Saw not her hands wrung;

Saw the Lesbians kissing across their smitten Lutes with lips more sweet than the sound of lute-strings, Mouth to mouth and hand upon hand, her chosen, Fairer than all men;

Only saw the beautiful lips and fingers, Full of songs and kisses and little whispers, Full of music; only beheld among them Soar, as a bird soars

Newly fledged, her visible song, a marvel, Made of perfect sound and exceeding pa.s.sion, Sweetly shapen, terrible, full of thunders, Clothed with the wind's wings.

Then rejoiced she, laughing with love, and scattered Roses, awful roses of holy blossom; Then the Loves thronged sadly with hidden faces Round Aphrodite,

Then the Muses, stricken at heart, were silent; Yea, the G.o.ds waxed pale; such a song was that song.

All reluctant, all with a fresh repulsion, Fled from before her.

All withdrew long since, and the land was barren, Full of fruitless women and music only.

Now perchance, when winds are a.s.suaged at sunset, Lulled at the dewfall,

By the grey sea-side, una.s.suaged, unheard of, Unbeloved, unseen in the ebb of twilight, Ghosts of outcast women return lamenting, Purged not in Lethe,

Clothed about with flame and with tears, and singing Songs that move the heart of the shaken heaven, Songs that break the heart of the earth with pity, Hearing, to hear them.

AT ELEUSIS

Men of Eleusis, ye that with long staves Sit in the market-houses, and speak words Made sweet with wisdom as the rare wine is Thickened with honey; and ye sons of these Who in the glad thick streets go up and down For pastime or grave traffic or mere chance; And all fair women having rings of gold On hands or hair; and chiefest over these I name you, daughters of this man the king, Who dipping deep smooth pitchers of pure bra.s.s Under the bubbled wells, till each round lip Stooped with loose gurgle of waters incoming, Found me an old sick woman, lamed and lean, Beside a growth of builded olive-boughs Whence multiplied thick song of thick-plumed throats-- Also wet tears filled up my hollow hands By reason of my crying into them-- And pitied me; for as cold water ran And washed the pitchers full from lip to lip, So washed both eyes full the strong salt of tears.

And ye put water to my mouth, made sweet With brown hill-berries; so in time I spoke And gathered my loose knees from under me.

Moreover in the broad fair halls this month Have I found s.p.a.ce and bountiful abode To please me. I Demeter speak of this, Who am the mother and the mate of things: For as ill men by drugs or singing words Shut the doors inward of the narrowed womb Like a lock bolted with round iron through, Thus I shut up the body and sweet mouth Of all soft pasture and the tender land, So that no seed can enter in by it Though one sow thickly, nor some grain get out Past the hard clods men cleave and bite with steel To widen the sealed lips of them for use.

None of you is there in the peopled street But knows how all the dry-drawn furrows ache With no green spot made count of in the black: How the wind finds no comfortable gra.s.s Nor is a.s.suaged with bud nor breath of herbs; And in hot autumn when ye house the stacks, All fields are helpless in the sun, all trees Stand as a man stripped out of all but skin.

Nevertheless ye sick have help to get By means and stablished ordinance of G.o.d; For G.o.d is wiser than a good man is.

But never shall new gra.s.s be sweet in earth Till I get righted of my wound and wrong By changing counsel of ill-minded Zeus.

For of all other G.o.ds is none save me Clothed with like power to build and break the year.

I make the lesser green begin, when spring Touches not earth but with one fearful foot; And as a careful gilder with grave art Soberly colours and completes the face, Mouth, chin and all, of some sweet work in stone, I carve the shapes of gra.s.s and tender corn And colour the ripe edges and long spikes With the red increase and the grace of gold, No tradesman in soft wools is cunninger To kill the secret of the fat white fleece With stains of blue and purple wrought in it.

Three moons were made and three moons burnt away While I held journey hither out of Crete Comfortless, tended by grave Hecate Whom my wound stung with double iron point; For all my face was like a cloth wrung out With close and weeping wrinkles, and both lids Sodden with salt continuance of tears.

For Hades and the sidelong will of Zeus And that lame wisdom that has writhen feet, Cunning, begotten in the bed of Shame, These three took evil will at me, and made Such counsel that when time got wing to fly This Hades out of summer and low fields Forced the bright body of Persephone: Out of pure gra.s.s, where she lying down, red flowers Made their sharp little shadows on her sides, Pale heat, pale colour on pale maiden flesh-- And chill water slid over her reddening feet, Killing the throbs in their soft blood; and birds, Perched next her elbow and pecking at her hair, Stretched their necks more to see her than even to sing.

A sharp thing is it I have need to say; For Hades holding both white wrists of hers Unloosed the girdle and with knot by knot Bound her between his wheels upon the seat, Bound her pure body, holiest yet and dear To me and G.o.d as always, clothed about With blossoms loosened as her knees went down.

Let fall as she let go of this and this By tens and twenties, tumbled to her feet, White waifs or purple of the pasturage.

Therefore with only going up and down My feet were wasted, and the gracious air, To me discomfortable and dun, became As weak smoke blowing in the under world.

And finding in the process of ill days What part had Zeus herein, and how as mate He coped with Hades, yokefellow in sin, I set my lips against the meat of G.o.ds And drank not neither ate or slept in heaven.

Nor in the golden greeting of their mouths Did ear take note of me, nor eye at all Track my feet going in the ways of them.

Like a great fire on some strait slip of land Between two washing inlets of wet sea That burns the gra.s.s up to each lip of beach And strengthens, waxing in the growth of wind, So burnt my soul in me at heaven and earth, Each way a ruin and a hungry plague, Visible evil; nor could any night Put cool between mine eyelids, nor the sun With competence of gold fill out my want.

Yea so my flame burnt up the gra.s.s and stones, Shone to the salt-white edges of thin sea, Distempered all the gracious work, and made Sick change, unseasonable increase of days And scant avail of seasons; for by this The fair G.o.ds faint in hollow heaven: there comes No taste of burnings of the twofold fat To leave their palates smooth, nor in their lips Soft rings of smoke and weak scent wandering; All cattle waste and rot, and their ill smell Grows alway from the lank unsavoury flesh That no man slays for offering; the sea And waters moved beneath the heath and corn Preserve the people of fin-twinkling fish, And river-flies feed thick upon the smooth; But all earth over is no man or bird (Except the sweet race of the kingfisher) That lacks not and is wearied with much loss.

Meantime the purple inward of the house Was softened with all grace of scent and sound In ear and nostril perfecting my praise; Faint grape-flowers and cloven honey-cake And the just grain with dues of the shed salt Made me content: yet my hand loosened not Its gripe upon your harvest all year long.

While I, thus woman-m.u.f.fled in wan flesh And waste externals of a perished face, Preserved the levels of my wrath and love Patiently ruled; and with soft offices Cooled the sharp noons and busied the warm nights In care of this my choice, this child my choice, Triptolemus, the king's selected son: That this fair yearlong body, which hath grown Strong with strange milk upon the mortal lip And nerved with half a G.o.d, might so increase Outside the bulk and the bare scope of man: And waxen over large to hold within Base breath of yours and this impoverished air, I might exalt him past the flame of stars, The limit and walled reach of the great world.

Therefore my breast made common to his mouth Immortal savours, and the taste whereat Twice their hard life strains out the coloured veins And twice its brain confirms the narrow sh.e.l.l.

Also at night, unwinding cloth from cloth As who unhusks an almond to the white And pastures curiously the purer taste, I bared the gracious limbs and the soft feet, Unswaddled the weak hands, and in mid ash Laid the sweet flesh of either feeble side, More tender for impressure of some touch Than wax to any pen; and lit around Fire, and made crawl the white worm-shapen flame, And leap in little angers spark by spark At head at once and feet; and the faint hair Hissed with rare sprinkles in the closer curl, And like scaled oarage of a keen thin fish In sea-water, so in pure fire his feet Struck out, and the flame bit not in his flesh, But like a kiss it curled his lip, and heat Fluttered his eyelids; so each night I blew The hot ash red to purge him to full G.o.d.

Ill is it when fear hungers in the soul For painful food, and chokes thereon, being fed; And ill slant eyes interpret the straight sun, But in their scope its white is wried to black: By the queen Metaneira mean I this; For with sick wrath upon her lips, and heart Narrowing with fear the spleenful pa.s.sages, She thought to thread this web's fine ravel out, Nor leave her shuttle split in combing it; Therefore she stole on us, and with hard sight Peered, and stooped close; then with pale open mouth As the fire smote her in the eyes between Cried, and the child's laugh, sharply shortening As fire doth under rain, fell off; the flame Writhed once all through and died, and in thick dark Tears fell from mine on the child's weeping eyes, Eyes dispossessed of strong inheritance And mortal fallen anew. Who not the less From bud of beard to pale-grey flower of hair Shall wax vinewise to a lordly vine, whose grapes Bleed the red heavy blood of swoln soft wine, Subtle with sharp leaves' intricacy, until Full of white years and blossom of h.o.a.ry days I take him perfected; for whose one sake I am thus gracious to the least who stands Filleted with white wool and girt upon As he whose prayer endures upon the lip And falls not waste: wherefore let sacrifice Burn and run red in all the wider ways; Seeing I have sworn by the pale temples' band And poppied hair of gold Persephone Sad-tressed and pleached low down about her brows, And by the sorrow in her lips, and death Her dumb and mournful-mouthd minister, My word for you is eased of its harsh weight And doubled with soft promise; and your king Triptolemus, this Celeus dead and swathed Purple and pale for golden burial, Shall be your helper in my services, Dividing earth and reaping fruits thereof In fields where wait, well-girt, well-wreathen, all The heavy-handed seasons all year through; Saving the choice of warm spear-headed grain, And stooping sharp to the slant-sided share All beasts that furrow the remeasured land With their bowed necks of burden equable.

AUGUST

There were four apples on the bough, Half gold half red, that one might know The blood was ripe inside the core; The colour of the leaves was more Like stems of yellow corn that grow Through all the gold June meadow's floor.

The warm smell of the fruit was good To feed on, and the split green wood, With all its bearded lips and stains Of mosses in the cloven veins, Most pleasant, if one lay or stood In sunshine or in happy rains.

There were four apples on the tree, Red stained through gold, that all might see The sun went warm from core to rind; The green leaves made the summer blind In that soft place they kept for me With golden apples shut behind.

The leaves caught gold across the sun, And where the bluest air begun Thirsted for song to help the heat; As I to feel my lady's feet Draw close before the day were done; Both lips grew dry with dreams of it.

In the mute August afternoon They trembled to some undertune Of music in the silver air; Great pleasure was it to be there Till green turned duskier and the moon Coloured the corn-sheaves like gold hair.

That August time it was delight To watch the red moons wane to white 'Twixt grey seamed stems of apple-trees; A sense of heavy harmonies Grew on the growth of patient night, More sweet than shapen music is.

But some three hours before the moon The air, still eager from the noon, Flagged after heat, not wholly dead; Against the stem I leant my head; The colour soothed me like a tune, Green leaves all round the gold and red.

I lay there till the warm smell grew More sharp, when flecks of yellow dew Between the round ripe leaves had blurred The rind with stain and wet; I heard A wind that blew and breathed and blew, Too weak to alter its one word.

The wet leaves next the gentle fruit Felt smoother, and the brown tree-root Felt the mould warmer: I too felt (As water feels the slow gold melt Right through it when the day burns mute) The peace of time wherein love dwelt.

There were four apples on the tree, Gold stained on red that all might see The sweet blood filled them to the core: The colour of her hair is more Like stems of fair faint gold, that be Mown from the harvest's middle floor.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL[5]

[5] Suggested by a drawing of Mr. D. G. Rossetti's.

Three damsels in the queen's chamber, The queen's mouth was most fair; She spake a word of G.o.d's mother As the combs went in her hair.

Mary that is of might, Bring us to thy Son's sight.

They held the gold combs out from her, A span's length off her head; She sang this song of G.o.d's mother And of her bearing-bed.

Mary most full of grace, Bring us to thy Son's face.

When she sat at Joseph's hand, She looked against her side; And either way from the short silk band Her girdle was all wried.

Mary that all good may, Bring us to thy Son's way.

Mary had three women for her bed, The twain were maidens clean; The first of them had white and red, The third had riven green.

Mary that is so sweet, Bring us to thy Son's feet.

She had three women for her hair, Two were gloved soft and shod; The third had feet and fingers bare, She was the likest G.o.d.

Mary that wieldeth land, Bring us to thy Son's hand.

She had three women for her ease, The twain were good women: The first two were the two Maries, The third was Magdalen.