Poems. Volume 3

THE CAGEING OF ARES

Iliad, v. 385

[DEDICATED TO THE COUNCIL AT THE HAGUE, 1899]How big of breast our Mother Gaea laughedAt sight of her boy Giants on the leapEach over other as they neighboured home,Fronting the day’s descent across green slopes,And up fired mountain crags their shadows danced.Close with them in their fun, she scarce could guess,Though these two billowy urchins reeked of craft,It signalled some adventurous master-trickTo set Olympians buzzing in debate,Lest it might be their godhead undermined,The Tyranny menaced.  Ephialtes highOn shoulders of his brother Otos wavedFor the bull-bellowings given to grand good news,Compact, complexioned in his gleeful roarWhile Otos aped the prisoner’s wrists and knees,With doleful sniffs between recurrent howls;Till Gaea’s lap receiving them, they stretched,And both upon her bosom shaken to speech,Burst the hot story out of throats of both,Like rocky head-founts, baffling in their glutThe hurried spout.  And as when drifting stormDisburdened loses clasp of here and yonA peak, a forest mound, a valley’s gleamOf grass and the river’s crooks and snaky coils,Signification marvellous she caught,Through gurglings of triumphant jollity,Which now engulphed and now gave eye; at lastSubsided, and the serious naked deed,With mountain-cloud of laughter banked around,Stood in her sight confirmed: she could believeThat these, her sprouts of promise, her most prized,These two made up of lion, bear and fox,Her sportive, suckling mammoths, her young joy,Still by the reckoning infants among men,Had done the deed to strike the Titan hostIn envy dumb, in envious heart elate:These two combining strength and craft had snared,Enmeshed, bound fast with thongs, discreetly cagedThe blood-shedder, the terrible Lord of War;Destroyer, ravager, superb in plumes;The barren furrower of anointed fields;The scarlet heel in towns, foul smoke to sky,Her hated enemy, too long her scourge:Great Ares.  And they gagged his trumpet mouthWhen they had seized on his implacable spear,Hugged him to reedy helplessness despiteHis godlike fury startled from amaze.For he had eyed them nearing him in play,The giant cubs, who gambolled and who snarled,Unheeding his fell presence, by the mountOssa, beside a brushwood cavern; thereOn Earth’s original fisticuffs they calledFor ease of sharp dispute: whereat the God,Approving, deemed that sometime trained to arms,Good servitors of Ares they would be,And ply the pointed spear to dominateTheir rebel restless fellows, villain broodVowed to defy Immortals.  So it chancedAmusedly he watched them, and as oneThe lusty twain were on him and they had him.Breath to us, Powers of air, for laughter loud!Cock of Olympus he, superb in plumes!Bound like a wheaten sheaf by those two babes!Because they knew our Mother Gaea loathed him,Knew him the famine, pestilence and waste;A desolating fire to blind the sightWith splendour built of fruitful things in ashes;The gory chariot-wheel on cries for justice;Her deepest planted and her liveliest voice,Heard from the babe as from the broken crone.Behold him in his vessel of bronze encased,And tumbled down the cave.  But rather look—Ah, that the woman tattler had not sought,Of all the Gods to let her secret fly,Hermes, after the thirteen songful months!Prompting the Dexterous to work his arts,And shatter earth’s delirious holiday,Then first, as where the fountain runs a stream,Resolving to composure on its throbs.But see her in the Seasons through that year;That one glad year and the fair opening month.Had never our Great Mother such sweet face!War with her, gentle war with her, each dayHer sons and daughters urged; at eve were flung,On the morrow stood to challenge; in their strengthRenewed, indomitable; whereof they won,From hourly wrestlings up to shut of lids,Her ready secret: the abounding lifeReturned for valiant labour: she and theyDefeated and victorious turn by turn;By loss enriched, by overthrow restored.Exchange of powers of this conflict came;Defacement none, nor ever squandered force.Is battle nature’s mandate, here it reigned,As music unto the hand that smote the strings;And she the rosier from their showery brows,They fruitful from her ploughed and harrowed breast.Back to the primal rational of thoseWho suck the teats of milky earth, and claspStability in hatred of the insane,Man stepped; with wits less fearful to pronounceThe mortal mind’s concept of earth’s divorcedAbove; those beautiful, those masterful,Those lawless.  High they sit, and if descend,Descend to reap, not sowing.  Is it just?Earth in her happy children asked that word,Whereto within their breast was her reply.Those beautiful, those masterful, those lawless,Enjoy the life prolonged, outleap the years;Yet they (’twas the Great Mother’s voice inspiredThe audacious thought), they, glorious over dust,Outleap not her; disrooted from her soar,To meet the certain fate of earth’s divorced,And clap lame wings across a wintry haze,Up to the farthest bourne: immortal still,Thenceforth innocuous; lovelier than when ruledThe Tyranny.  This her voice within them told,When softly the Great Mother chid her sonsNot of the giant brood, who did createThose lawless Gods, first offspring of our brainSet moving by an abject blood, that wakedTo wanton under elements more benign,And planted aliens on Olympian heights;—Imagination’s cradle poesyBecome a monstrous pressure upon men;—Foes of good Gaea; until dispossessedBy light from her, born of the love of her,Their lordship the illumined brain rejectsFor earth’s beneficent, the sons of Law,Her other name.  So spake she in their heart,Among the wheat-blades proud of stalk; beneathYoung vine-leaves pushing timid fingers forth,Confidently to cling.  And when brown cornSwayed armied ranks with softened cricket song,With gold necks bent for any zephyr’s kiss;When vine-roots daily down a rubble soilDrank fire of heaven athirst to swell the grape;When swelled the grape, and in it held a ray,Rich issue of the embrace of heaven and earth;The very eye of passion drowsed by excess,And yet a burning lion for the spring;Then in that time of general cherishment,Sweet breathing balm and flutes by cool wood-side,He the harsh rouser of ire being absent, caged,Then did good Gaea’s children gratefullyLift hymns to Gods they judged, but praised for peace,Delightful Peace, that answers Reason’s callHarmoniously and images her Law;Reflects, and though short-lived as then, revives,In memories made present on the brainBy natural yearnings, all the happy scenes;The picture of an earth allied to heaven;Between them the known smile behind black masks;Rightly their various moods interpreted;And frolic because toilful children borneWith larger comprehension of Earth’s aimAt loftier, clearer, sweeter, by their aid.

THE NIGHT-WALK

Awakes for me and leaps from shroudAll radiantly the moon’s own nightOf folded showers in streamer cloud;Our shadows down the highway whiteOr deep in woodland woven-boughed,With yon and yon a stem alight.I see marauder runagatesAcross us shoot their dusky wink;I hear the parliament of chatsIn haws beside the river’s brink;And drops the vole off alder-banks,To push his arrow through the stream.These busy people had our thanksFor tickling sight and sound, but themeThey were not more than breath we drewDelighted with our world’s embrace:The moss-root smell where beeches grew,And watered grass in breezy space;The silken heights, of ghostly bloomAmong their folds, by distance draped.’Twas Youth, rapacious to consume,That cried to have its chaos shaped:Absorbing, little noting, stillEnriched, and thinking it bestowed;With wistful looks on each far hillFor something hidden, something owed.Unto his mantled sister, DayHad given the secret things we soughtAnd she was grave and saintly gay;At times she fluttered, spoke her thought;She flew on it, then folded wings,In meditation passing lone,To breathe around the secret things,Which have no word, and yet are known;Of thirst for them are known, as airIs health in blood: we gained enoughBy this to feel it honest fare;Impalpable, not barren, stuff.A pride of legs in motion keptOur spirits to their task meanwhile,And what was deepest dreaming slept:The posts that named the swallowed mile;Beside the straight canal the hutAbandoned; near the river’s sourceIts infant chirp; the shortest cut;The roadway missed; were our discourse;At times dear poets, whom some viewTranscendent or subdued evokedTo speak the memorable, the true,The luminous as a moon uncloaked;For proof that there, among earth’s dumb,A soul had passed and said our best.Or it might be we chimed on someHistoric favourite’s astral crest,With part to reverence in its gleam,And part to rivalry the shout:So royal, unuttered, is youth’s dreamOf power within to strike without.But most the silences were sweet,Like mothers’ breasts, to bid it feelIt lived in such divine conceitAs envies aught we stamp for real.To either then an untold taleWas Life, and author, hero, we.The chapters holding peaks to scale,Or depths to fathom, made our glee;For we were armed of inner fires,Unbled in us the ripe desires;And passion rolled a quiet sea,Whereon was Love the phantom sail.

AT THE CLOSE

To Thee, dear God of Mercy, both appeal,Who straightway sound the call to arms.  Thou know’st;And that black spot in each embattled host,Spring of the blood-stream, later wilt reveal.Now is it red artillery and white steel;Till on a day will ring the victor’s boast,That ’tis Thy chosen towers uppermost,Where Thy rejected grovels under heel.So in all times of man’s descent insaneTo brute, did strength and craft combining strike,Even as a God of Armies, his fell blow.But at the close he entered Thy domain,Dear God of Mercy, and if lion-likeHe tore the fall’n, the Eternal was his Foe.

A GARDEN IDYL

With sagest craft Arachne workedHer web, and at a corner lurked,Awaiting what should plump her soon,To case it in the death-cocoon.Sagaciously her home she choseFor visits that would never close;Inside my chalet-porch her feastPlucked all the winds but chill North-east.The finished structure, bar on bar,Had snatched from light to form a star,And struck on sight, when quick with dews,Like music of the very Muse.Great artists pass our single sense;We hear in seeing, strung to tense;Then haply marvel, groan mayhap,To think such beauty means a trap.But Nature’s genius, even man’sAt best, is practical in plans;Subservient to the needy thought,However rare the weapon wrought.As long as Nature holds it goodTo urge her creatures’ quest for foodWill beauty stamp the just intentOf weapons upon service bent.For beauty is a flower of rootsEmbedded lower than our boots;Out of the primal strata springs,And shows for crown of useful things.Arachne’s dream of prey to sizeAspired; so she could nigh despiseThe puny specks the breezes roundSupplied, and let them shake unwound;Assured of her fat fly to come;Perhaps a blue, the spider’s plum;Who takes the fatal odds in fight,And gives repast an appetite,By plunging, whizzing, till his wingsAre webbed, and in the lists he swings,A shrouded lump, for her to seeHer banquet in her victory.This matron of the unnumbered threads,One day of dandelions’ headsDistributing their gray perruquesUp every gust, I watched with looksDiscreet beside the chalet-door;And gracefully a light wind bore,Direct upon my webster’s wall,A monster in the form of ball;The mildest captive ever snared,That neither struggled nor despaired,On half the net invading hung,And plain as in her mother tongue,While low the weaver cursed her lures,Remarked, “You have me; I am yours.”Thrice magnified, in phantom shape,Her dream of size she saw, agape.Midway the vast round-raying beardA desiccated midge appeared;Whose body pricked the name of meal,Whose hair had growth in earth’s unreal;Provocative of dread and wrath,Contempt and horror, in one froth,Inextricable, insensible,His poison presence there would dwell,Declaring him her dream fulfilled,A catch to compliment the skilled;And she reduced to beaky skin,Disgraceful among kith and kinAgainst her corner, humped and aged,Arachne wrinkled, past enraged,Beyond disgust or hope in guile.Ridiculously volatileHe seemed to her last spark of mind;And that in pallid ash declinedBeneath the blow by knowledge dealt,Wherein throughout her frame she feltThat he, the light wind’s libertine,Without a scoff, without a grin,And mannered like the courtly few,Who merely danced when light winds blew,Impervious to beak and claws,Tradition’s ruinous Whitebeard was;Of whom, as actors in old scenes,Had grannam weavers warned their weans,With word, that less than feather-weight,He smote the web like bolt of Fate.This muted drama, hour by hour,I watched amid a world in flower,Ere yet Autumnal threads had laidTheir gray-blue o’er the grass’s blade,And still along the garden-runThe blindworm stretched him, drunk of sun.Arachne crouched unmoved; perchanceHer visitor performed a dance;She puckered thinner; he the sameAs when on that light wind he came.Next day was told what deeds of nightWere done; the web had vanished quite;With it the strange opposing pair;And listless waved on vacant air,For her adieu to heart’s content,A solitary filament.

A READING OF LIFE

THE VITAL CHOICE

IOr shall we run with ArtemisOr yield the breast to Aphrodite?Both are mighty;Both give bliss;Each can torture if divided;Each claims worship undivided,In her wake would have us wallow.IIYouth must offer on bent kneesHomage unto one or other;Earth, the mother,This decrees;And unto the pallid ScytherEither points us shun we eitherShun or too devoutly follow.WITH THE HUNTRESSThrough the water-eye of night,Midway between eve and dawn,See the chase, the rout, the flightIn deep forest; oread, faun,Goat-foot, antlers laid on neck;Ravenous all the line for speed.See yon wavy sparkle beckSign of the Virgin Lady’s lead.Down her course a serpent starCoils and shatters at her heels;Peals the horn exulting, pealsPlaintive, is it near or far.Huntress, arrowy to pursue,In and out of woody glen,Under cliffs that tear the blue,Over torrent, over fen,She and forest, where she skimsFeathery, darken and relume:Those are her white-lightning limbsCleaving loads of leafy gloom.Mountains hear her and call back,Shrewd with night: a frosty wailDistant: her the emerald valeFolds, and wonders in her track.Now her retinue is lean,Many rearward; streams the chaseEager forth of covert; seenOne hot tide the rapturous race.Quiver-charged and crescent-crowned,Up on a flash the lighted moundLeaps she, bow to shoulder, shaftStrung to barb with archer’s craft,Legs like plaited lyre-chords, feetSongs to see, past pitch of sweet.Fearful swiftness they outrun,Shaggy wildness, grey or dun,Challenge, charge of tusks elude:Theirs the dance to tame the rude;Beast, and beast in manhood tame,Follow we their silver flame.Pride of flesh from bondage free,Reaping vigour of its waste,Marks her servitors, and sheSanctifies the unembraced.Nought of perilous she reeks;Valour clothes her open breast;Sweet beyond the thrill of sex;Hallowed by the sex confessed.Huntress arrowy to pursue,Colder she than sunless dew,She, that breath of upper air;Ay, but never lyrist sang,Draught of Bacchus never sprangBlood the bliss of Gods to share,High o’er sweep of eagle wings,Like the run with her, when ringsClear her rally, and her dart,In the forest’s cavern heart,Tells of her victorious aim.Then is pause and chatter, cheer,Laughter at some satyr lame,Looks upon the fallen deer,Measuring his noble crest;Here a favourite in her train,Foremost mid her nymphs, caressed;All applauded.  Shall she reignWorshipped?  O to be with her there!She, that breath of nimble air,Lifts the breast to giant power.Maid and man, and man and maid,Who each other would devourElsewhere, by the chase betrayed,There are comrades, led by her,Maid-preserver, man-maker.

WITH THE PERSUADER

Who murmurs, hither, hither: whoWhere nought is audible so fills the ear?Where nought is visible can make appearA veil with eyes that waver through,Like twilight’s pledge of blessed night to come,Or day most golden?  All unseen and dumb,She breathes, she moves, inviting flees,Is lost, and leaves the thrilled desireTo clasp and strike a slackened lyre,Till over smiles of hyacinth seas,Flame in a crystal vessel sailsBeneath a dome of jewelled spray,For land that drops the rosy dayOn nights of throbbing nightingales.Landward did the wonder flit,Or heart’s desire of her, all earth in it.We saw the heavens fling down their rose;On rapturous waves we saw her glide;The pearly sea-shell half enclose;The shoal of sea-nymphs flush the tide;And we, afire to kiss her feet, no moreBehold than tracks along a startled shore,With brightened edges of dark leaves that feignAn ambush hoped, as heartless night remain.More closely, warmly: hither, hither! she,The very she called forth by ripened bloodFor its next breath of being, murmurs; she,Allurement; she, fulfilment; she,The stream within us urged to flood;Man’s cry, earth’s answer, heaven’s consent; O she,Maid, woman and divinity;Our over-earthly, inner-earthly mateUnmated; she, our hunger and our fruitUntasted; she our written fateUnread; Life’s flowering, Life’s root:Unread, divined; unseen, beheld;The evanescent, ever-present she,Great Nature’s stern necessityIn radiance clothed, to softness quelled;With a sword’s edge of sweetness keen to takeOur breath for bliss, our hearts for fulness break.The murmur hushes down, the veil is rent.Man’s cry, earth’s answer, heaven’s consent,Her form is given to pardoned sight,And lets our mortal eyes receiveThe sovereign loveliness of celestial white;Adored by them who solitarily pace,In dusk of the underworld’s perpetual eve,The paths among the meadow asphodel,Remembering.  Never there her faceIs planetary; reddens to shore sea-shellAround such whiteness the enamoured airOf noon that clothes her, never there.Daughter of light, the joyful light,She stands unveiled to nuptial sight,Sweet in her disregard of aidDivine to conquer or persuade.A fountain jets from moss; a flowerBends gently where her sunset tresses shower.By guerdon of her brilliance may be seenWith eyelids unabashed the passion’s Queen.Shorn of attendant Graces she can useHer natural snares to make her will supreme.A simple nymph it is, inclined to museBefore the leader foot shall dip in stream:One arm at curve along a rounded thigh;Her firm new breasts each pointing its own wayA knee half bent to shade its fellow shy,Where innocence, not nature, signals nay.The bud of fresh virginity awaitsThe wooer, and all roseate will she burst:She touches on the hour of happy mates;Still is she unaware she wakens thirst.And while commanding blissful sight believeIt holds her as a body strained to breast,Down on the underworld’s perpetual eveShe plunges the possessor dispossessed;And bids believe that image, heaving warm,Is lost to float like torch-smoke after flame;The phantom any breeze blows out of form;A thirst’s delusion, a defeated aim.The rapture shed the torture weaves;The direst blow on human heart she deals:The pain to know the seen deceives;Nought true but what insufferably feels.And stabs of her delicious note,That is as heavenly light to hearing, heardThrough shelter leaves, the laughter from her throat,We answer as the midnight’s morning’s bird.She laughs, she wakens gleeful cries;In her delicious laughter part revealed;Yet mother is she more of moans and sighs,For longings unappeased and wounds unhealed.Yet would she bless, it is her task to bless:Yon folded couples, passing under shade,Are her rich harvest; bidden caress, caress,Consume the fruit in bloom; not disobeyed.We dolorous complainers had a dream,Wrought on the vacant air from inner fire,We saw stand bare of her celestial beamThe glorious Goddess, and we dared desire.Thereat are shown reproachful eyes, and lipsOf upward curl to meanings half obscure;And glancing where a wood-nymph lightly skipsShe nods: at once that creature wears her lure.Blush of our being between birth and death:Sob of our ripened blood for its next breath:Her wily semblance nought of her denies;Seems it the Goddess runs, the Goddess hies,The generous Goddess yields.  And she can armHer dwarfed and twisted with her secret charm;Benevolent as Earth to feed her own.Fully shall they be fed, if they beseech.But scorn she has for them that walk alone;Blanched men, starved women, whom no arts can pleach.The men as chief of criminals she disdains,And holds the reason in perceptive thought.More pitiable, like rivers lacking rains,Kissing cold stones, the women shrink for drought.Those faceless discords, out of nature strayed,Rank of the putrefaction ere decayed,In impious singles bear the thorny wreaths:Their lives are where harmonious Pleasure breathesFor couples crowned with flowers that burn in dew.Comes there a tremor of night’s forest hornAcross her garden from the insaner crew,She darkens to malignity of scorn.A shiver courses through her garden-grounds:Grunt of the tusky boar, the baying hounds,The hunter’s shouts, are heard afar, and bringDead on her heart her crimsoned flower of Spring.These, the irreverent of Life’s design,Division between natural and divineWould cast; these vaunting barrenness for best,In veins of gathered strength Life’s tide arrest;And these because the roses flood their cheeks,Vow them in nature wise as when Love speaks.With them is war; and well the Goddess knowsWhat undermines the race who mount the rose;How the ripe moment, lodged in slumberous hours,Enkindled by persuasion overpowers:Why weak as are her frailer trailing weeds,The strong when Beauty gleams o’er Nature’s needs,And timely guile unguarded finds them lie.They who her sway withstand a sea defy,At every point of juncture must be proof;Nor look for mercy from the incessant surgeHer forces mixed of craft and passion urgeFor the one whelming wave to spring aloof.She, tenderness, is pitiless to themResisting in her godhead nature’s truth.No flower their face shall be, but writhen stem;Their youth a frost, their age the dirge for youth.These miserably disinclined,The lamentably unembraced,Insult the Pleasures Earth designedTo people and beflower the waste.Wherefore the Pleasures pass them by:For death they live, in life they die.Her head the Goddess from them turns,As from grey mounds of ashes in bronze urns.She views her quivering couples unconsoled,And of her beauty mirror they become,Like orchard blossoms, apple, pear and plum,Free of the cloud, beneath the flood of gold.Crowned with wreaths that burn in dew,Her couples whirl, sun-satiated,Athirst for shade, they sigh, they wed,They play the music made of two:Oldest of earth, earth’s youngest till earth’s end:Cunninger than the numbered strings,For melodies, for harmonies,For mastered discords, and the thingsNot vocable, whose mysteriesAre inmost Love’s, Life’s reach of Life extend.Is it an anguish overflowing shameAnd the tongue’s pudency confides to her,With eyes of embers, breath of incense myrrh,The woman’s marrow in some dear youth’s name,Then is the Goddess tendernessMaternal, and she has a sister’s tonesBenign to soothe intemperate distress,Divide despair from hope, and sighs from moans.Her gentleness imparts exhaling easeTo those of her milk-bearer votariesAs warm of bosom-earth as she; of the sourceDirect; erratic but in heart’s excess;Being mortal and ill-matched for Love’s great force;Like green leaves caught with flames by his impress.And pray they under skies less overcast,That swiftly may her star of eve descend,Her lustrous morning star fly not too fast,To lengthen blissful night will she befriend.Unfailing her reply to woman’s voiceIn supplication instant.  Is it man’s,She hears, approves his words, her garden scans,And him: the flowers are various, he has choice.Perchance his wound is deep; she listens long;Enjoys what music fills the plaintive song;And marks how he, who would be hawk at poiseAbove the bird, his plaintive song enjoys.She reads him when his humbled manhood weepsTo her invoked: distraction is implored.A smile, and he is up on godlike leapsAbove, with his bright Goddess owned the adored.His tales of her declare she condescends;Can share his fires, not always goads and rends:Moreover, quits a throne, and must encloseA queenlier gem than woman’s wayside rose.She bends, he quickens; she breathes low, he springsEnraptured; low she laughs, his woes disperse;Aloud she laughs and sweeps his varied strings.’Tis taught him how for touch of mournful verseRarely the music made of two ascends,And Beauty’s Queen some other way is won.Or it may solve the riddle, that she lendsHerself to all, and yields herself to none,Save heavenliest: though claims by men are raisedIn hot assurance under shade of doubt:And numerous are the images bepraisedAs Beauty’s Queen, should passion head the rout.Be sure the ruddy hue is Love’s: to wooLove’s Fountain we must mount the ruddy hue.That is her garden’s precept, seen where shinesHer blood-flower, and its unsought neighbour pines.Daughter of light, the joyful light,She bids her couples face full East,Reflecting radiance, even when from her feastTheir outstretched arms brown deserts disunite,The lion-haunted thickets hold apart.In love the ruddy hue declares great heart;High confidence in her whose aid is lentTo lovers lifting the tuned instrument,Not one of rippled strings and funeral tone.And doth the man pursue a tightened zone,Then be it as the Laurel God he runs,Confirmed to win, with countenance the Sun’s.Should pity bless the tremulous voice of woeHe lifts for pity, limp his offspring show.For him requiring woman’s arts to pleaseInfantile tastes with babe reluctances,No race of giants!  In the woman’s veinsPersuasion ripely runs, through hers the pains.Her choice of him, should kind occasion nod,Aspiring blends the Titan with the God;Yet unto dwarf and mortal, she, submissIn her high Lady’s mandate, yields the kiss;And is it needed that Love’s daintier bruteBe snared as hunter, she will tempt pursuit.She is great Nature’s ever intimateIn breast, and doth as ready handmaid wait,Until perverted by her senseless male,She plays the winding snake, the shrinking snail,The flying deer, all tricks of evil fame,Elusive to allure, since he grew tame.Hence has the Goddess, Nature’s earliest Power,And greatest and most present, with her dowerOf the transcendent beauty, gained reputeFor meditated guile.  She laughs to hearA charge her garden’s labyrinths scarce confute,Her garden’s histories tell of to all near.Let it be said, But less upon her guileDoth she rely for her immortal smile.Still let the rumour spread, and terror screensTo push her conquests by the simplest means.While man abjures not lustihead, nor swervesFrom earth’s good labours, Beauty’s Queen he serves.Her spacious garden and her garden’s grantShe offers in reward for handsome cheer:Choice of the nymphs whose looks will slantThe secret down a dewy leerOf corner eyelids into haze:Many a fair AphrosyneLike flower-bell to honey-bee:And here they flicker round the mazeBewildering him in heart and head:And here they wear the close demure,With subtle peeps to reassure:Others parade where love has bled,And of its crimson weave their mesh:Others to snap of fingers leap,As bearing breast with love asleep.These are her laughters in the flesh.Or would she fit a warrior mood,She lights her seeming unsubdued,And indicates the fortress-key.Or is it heart for heart that craves,She flecks along a run of wavesThe one to promise deeper sea.Bands of her limpid primitives,Or patterned in the curious braid,Are the blest man’s; and whatsoever he gives,For what he gives is he repaid.Good is it if by him ’tis heldHe wins the fairest ever welledFrom Nature’s founts: she whispers it: Even INot fairer! and forbids him to deny,Else little is he lover.  Those he clasps,Intent as tempest, worshipful as prayer,—And be they doves or be they asps,—Must seem to him the sovereignty fair;Else counts he soon among life’s wholly tamed.Him whom from utter savage she reclaimed,Half savage must he stay, would he be crownedThe lover.  Else, past ripeness, deathward bound,He reasons; and the totterer Earth detests,Love shuns, grim logic screws in grasp, is he.Doth man divide divine NecessityFrom Joy, between the Queen of Beauty’s breastsA sword is driven; for those most glorious twainPresent her; armed to bless and to constrain.Of this he perishes; not she, the thronedOn rocks that spout their springs to the sacred mounts.A loftier Reason out of deeper fountsEarth’s chosen Goddess bears: by none disownedWhile red blood runs to swell the pulse, she boasts,And Beauty, like her star, descends the sky;Earth’s answer, heaven’s consent unto man’s cry,Uplifted by the innumerable hosts.Quickened of Nature’s eye and ear,When the wild sap at high tide smitesWithin us; or benignly clearTo vision; or as the iris lightsOn fluctuant waters; she is oursTill set of man: the dreamed, the seen;Flushing the world with odorous flowers:A soft compulsion on terreneBy heavenly: and the world is hersWhile hunger after Beauty spurs.So is it sung in any spaceShe fills, with laugh at shallow lawsForbidding love’s devised embrace,The music Beauty from it draws.