Second April | Page 9

time I lay,?And whom always I lack,?Even to this day,?Being by no means from that frigid bosom weaned away,?If only she therewith be given me back?"?I sought her down that dolorous labyrinth,?Wherein no shaft of sunlight ever fell,?And in among the bloodless everywhere?I sought her, but the air,?Breathed many times and spent,?Was fretful with a whispering discontent,?And questioning me, importuning me to tell?Some slightest tidings of the light of day they know no more, Plucking my sleeve, the eager shades were with me where I went. I paused at every grievous door,?And harked a moment, holding up my hand,--and for a space?A hush was on them, while they watched my face;?And then they fell a-whispering as before;?So that I smiled at them and left them, seeing she was not there. I sought her, too,?Among the upper gods, although I knew?She was not like to be where feasting is,?Nor near to Heaven's lord,?Being a thing abhorred?And shunned of him, although a child of his,?(Not yours, not yours; to you she owes not breath,?Mother of Song, being sown of Zeus upon a dream of Death).?Fearing to pass unvisited some place?And later learn, too late, how all the while,?With her still face,?She had been standing there and seen me pass, without a smile, I sought her even to the sagging board whereat?The stout immortals sat;?But such a laughter shook the mighty hall?No one could hear me say:?Had she been seen upon the Hill that day??And no one knew at all?How long I stood, or when at last I sighed and went away.
There is a garden lying in a lull?Between the mountains and the mountainous sea,?I know not where, but which a dream diurnal?Paints on my lids a moment till the hull?Be lifted from the kernel?And Slumber fed to me.?Your foot-print is not there, Mnemosene,?Though it would seem a ruined place and after?Your lichenous heart, being full?Of broken columns, caryatides?Thrown to the earth and fallen forward on their jointless knees, And urns funereal altered into dust?Minuter than the ashes of the dead,?And Psyche's lamp out of the earth up-thrust,?Dripping itself in marble wax on what was once the bed?Of Love, and his young body asleep, but now is dust instead.
There twists the bitter-sweet, the white wisteria?Fastens its fingers in the strangling wall,?And the wide crannies quicken with bright weeds;?There dumbly like a worm all day the still white orchid feeds; But never an echo of your daughters' laughter?Is there, nor any sign of you at all?Swells fungous from the rotten bough, grey mother of Pieria!
Only her shadow once upon a stone?I saw,--and, lo, the shadow and the garden, too, were gone.
I tell you you have done her body an ill,?You chatterers, you noisy crew!?She is not anywhere!?I sought her in deep Hell;?And through the world as well;?I thought of Heaven and I sought her there;?Above nor under ground?Is Silence to be found,?That was the very warp and woof of you,?Lovely before your songs began and after they were through! Oh, say if on this hill?Somewhere your sister's body lies in death,?So I may follow there, and make a wreath?Of my locked hands, that on her quiet breast?Shall lie till age has withered them!
(Ah, sweetly from the rest?I see?Turn and consider me?Compassionate Euterpe!)?"There is a gate beyond the gate of Death,?Beyond the gate of everlasting Life,?Beyond the gates of Heaven and Hell," she saith,?"Whereon but to believe is horror!?Whereon to meditate engendereth?Even in deathless spirits such as I?A tumult in the breath,?A chilling of the inexhaustible blood?Even in my veins that never will be dry,?And in the austere, divine monotony?That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood.
This is her province whom you lack and seek;?And seek her not elsewhere.?Hell is a thoroughfare?For pilgrims,--Herakles,?And he that loved Euridice too well,?Have walked therein; and many more than these;?And witnessed the desire and the despair?Of souls that passed reluctantly and sicken for the air;?You, too, have entered Hell,?And issued thence; but thence whereof I speak?None has returned;--for thither fury brings?Only the driven ghosts of them that flee before all things. Oblivion is the name of this abode: and she is there."
Oh, radiant Song! Oh, gracious Memory!?Be long upon this height?I shall not climb again!?I know the way you mean,--the little night,?And the long empty day,--never to see?Again the angry light,?Or hear the hungry noises cry my brain!?Ah, but she,?Your other sister and my other soul,?She shall again be mine;?And I shall drink her from a silver bowl,?A chilly thin green wine,?Not bitter to the taste,?Not sweet,?Not of your press, oh, restless, clamorous nine,--?To foam beneath the frantic hoofs of mirth--?But savoring faintly of the acid earth,?And trod by pensive feet?From perfect clusters ripened without haste?Out of the urgent heat?In some clear glimmering vaulted twilight under the odorous vine.
Lift up your lyres! Sing on!?But as for me,