Bear me to Dictaeus, and to the steep slopes; to the river Erymanthus.
I choose spray of dittany, cyperum, frail of flower, buds of myrrh, all-healing herbs, close pressed in calathes.
For she lies panting, drawing sharp breath, broken with harsh sobs, she, Hyella, whom no G.o.d pities.
II
Dryads haunting the groves, nereids who dwell in wet caves, for all the white leaves of olive-branch, and early roses, and ivy wreaths, woven gold berries, which she once brought to your altars, bear now ripe fruits from Arcadia, and a.s.syrian wine to shatter her fever.
The light of her face falls from its flower, as a hyacinth, hidden in a far valley, perishes upon burnt gra.s.s.
Pales, bring gifts, bring your Phoenician stuffs, and do you, fleet-footed nymphs, bring offerings, Illyrian iris, and a branch of shrub, and frail-headed poppies.
NIGHT
The night has cut each from each and curled the petals back from the stalk and under it in crisp rows;
under at an unfaltering pace, under till the rinds break, back till each bent leaf is parted from its stalk;
under at a grave pace, under till the leaves are bent back till they drop upon earth, back till they are all broken.
O night, you take the petals of the roses in your hand, but leave the stark core of the rose to perish on the branch.
PRISONERS
It is strange that I should want this sight of your face-- we have had so much: at any moment now I may pa.s.s, stand near the gate, do not speak-- only reach if you can, your face half-fronting the pa.s.sage toward the light.
Fate--G.o.d sends this as a mark, a last token that we are not forgot, lost in this turmoil, about to be crushed out, burned or stamped out at best with sudden death.
The spearsman who brings this will ask for the gold clasp you wear under your coat.
I gave all I had left.
Press close to the portal, my gate will soon clang and your fellow wretches will crowd to the entrance-- be first at the gate.
Ah beloved, do not speak.
I write this in great haste-- do not speak, you may yet be released.
I am glad enough to depart though I have never tasted life as in these last weeks.
It is a strange life, patterned in fire and letters on the prison pavement.
If I glance up it is written on the walls, it is cut on the floor, it is patterned across the slope of the roof.
I am weak--weak-- last night if the guard had left the gate unlocked I could not have ventured to escape, but one thought serves me now with strength.
As I pa.s.s down the corridor past desperate faces at each cell, your eyes and my eyes may meet.
You will be dark, unkempt, but I pray for one glimpse of your face-- why do I want this?
I who have seen you at the banquet each flower of your hyacinth-circlet white against your hair.
Why do I want this, when even last night you startled me from sleep?
You stood against the dark rock, you grasped an elder staff.
So many nights you have distracted me from terror.
Once you lifted a spear-flower.
I remember how you stooped to gather it-- and it flamed, the leaf and shoot and the threads, yellow, yellow-- sheer till they burnt to red-purple in the cup.
As I pa.s.s your cell-door do not speak.
I was first on the list-- They may forget you tried to shield me as the hors.e.m.e.n pa.s.sed.
STORM
You crash over the trees, you crack the live branch-- the branch is white, the green crushed, each leaf is rent like split wood.
You burden the trees with black drops, you swirl and crash-- you have broken off a weighted leaf in the wind, it is hurled out, whirls up and sinks, a green stone.
SEA IRIS
I
Weed, moss-weed, root tangled in sand, sea-iris, brittle flower, one petal like a sh.e.l.l is broken, and you print a shadow like a thin twig.
Fortunate one, scented and stinging, rigid myrrh-bud, camphor-flower, sweet and salt--you are wind in our nostrils.
II
Do the murex-fishers drench you as they pa.s.s?
Do your roots drag up colour from the sand?
Have they slipped gold under you-- rivets of gold?
Band of iris-flowers above the waves, you are painted blue, painted like a fresh prow stained among the salt weeds.