Songs of the Springtides and Birthday Ode | Page 7

sense of ear and eye,?A soul behind the soul, that seeks and sings?And makes our life move only with its wings?And feed but from its lips, that in return?Feed of our hearts wherein the old fires that burn?Have strength not to consume?Nor glory enough to exalt us past our doom.
_Ah, ah, the doom_ (thou knowest whence rang that wail)?_Of the shrill nightingale!_?(From whose wild lips, thou knowest, that wail was thrown)?_For round about her have the great gods cast?A wing-borne body, and clothed her close and fast?With a sweet life that hath no part in moan.?But me, for me_ (how hadst thou heart to hear?)?_Remains a sundering with the two-edged spear._
_Ah, for her doom!_ so cried in presage then?The bodeful bondslave of the king of men,?And might not win her will.?Too close the entangling dragnet woven of crime,?The snare of ill new-born of elder ill,?The curse of new time for an elder time,?Had caught, and held her yet,?Enmeshed intolerably in the intolerant net,?Who thought with craft to mock the God most high,?And win by wiles his crown of prophecy?From the Sun's hand sublime,?As God were man, to spare or to forget.
But thou,--the gods have given thee and forgiven thee?More than our master gave?That strange-eyed spirit-wounded strange-tongued slave?There questing houndlike where the roofs red-wet?Reeked as a wet red grave.?Life everlasting has their strange grace given thee,?Even hers whom thou wast wont to sing and serve?With eyes, but not with song, too swift to swerve;?Yet might not even thine eyes estranged estrange her,?Who seeing thee too, but inly, burn and bleed?Like that pale princess-priest of Priam's seed,?For stranger service gave thee guerdon stranger;?If this indeed be guerdon, this indeed?Her mercy, this thy meed--?That thou, being more than all we born, being higher?Than all heads crowned of him that only gives?The light whereby man lives,?The bay that bids man moved of God's desire?Lay hand on lute or lyre,?Set lip to trumpet or deflowered green reed--?If this were given thee for a grace indeed,?That thou, being first of all these, thou alone?Shouldst have the grace to die not, but to live?And lose nor change one pulse of song, one tone?Of all that were thy lady's and thine own,?Thy lady's whom thou criedst on to forgive,?Thou, priest and sacrifice on the altar-stone?Where none may worship not of all that live,?Love's priestess, errant on dark ways diverse;?If this were grace indeed for Love to give,?If this indeed were blessing and no curse.
Love's priestess, mad with pain and joy of song,?Song's priestess, mad with joy and pain of love,?Name above all names that are lights above,?We have loved, praised, pitied, crowned and done thee wrong, O thou past praise and pity; thou the sole?Utterly deathless, perfect only and whole?Immortal, body and soul.?For over all whom time hath overpast?The shadow of sleep inexorable is cast,?The implacable sweet shadow of perfect sleep?That gives not back what life gives death to keep;?Yea, all that lived and loved and sang and sinned?Are all borne down death's cold sweet soundless wind?That blows all night and knows not whom its breath,?Darkling, may touch to death:?But one that wind hath touched and changed not,--one?Whose body and soul are parcel of the sun;?One that earth's fire could burn not, nor the sea?Quench; nor might human doom take hold on thee;?All praise, all pity, all dreams have done thee wrong,?All love, with eyes love-blinded from above;?Song's priestess, mad with joy and pain of love,?Love's priestess, mad with pain and joy of song.
Hast thou none other answer then for me?Than the air may have of thee,?Or the earth's warm woodlands girdling with green girth?Thy secret sleepless burning life on earth,?Or even the sea that once, being woman crowned?And girt with fire and glory of anguish round,?Thou wert so fain to seek to, fain to crave?If she would hear thee and save?And give thee comfort of thy great green grave??Because I have known thee always who thou art,?Thou knowest, have known thee to thy heart's own heart,?Nor ever have given light ear to storied song?That did thy sweet name sweet unwitting wrong,?Nor ever have called thee nor would call for shame,?Thou knowest, but inly by thine only name,?Sappho--because I have known thee and loved, hast thou?None other answer now??As brother and sister were we, child and bird,?Since thy first Lesbian word?Flamed on me, and I knew not whence I knew?This was the song that struck my whole soul through,?Pierced my keen spirit of sense with edge more keen,?Even when I knew not,--even ere sooth was seen,--?When thou wast but the tawny sweet winged thing?Whose cry was but of spring.
And yet even so thine ear should hear me--yea,?Hear me this nightfall by this northland bay,?Even for their sake whose loud good word I had,?Singing of thee in the all-beloved clime?Once, where the windy wine of spring makes mad?Our sisters