Title: HYMEN
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Author: H.D.
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Page No 1
HYMEN
H.D.
Page No 2
Table of Contents
HYMEN...............................................................................................................................................................1
H.D. ..........................................................................................................................................................1
HYMEN ...................................................................................................................................................2
DEMETER ...............................................................................................................................................8
SIMAETHA ...........................................................................................................................................12
THETIS ..................................................................................................................................................13
CIRCE ....................................................................................................................................................14
LEDA .....................................................................................................................................................15
HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES.............................................................................................................16
CUCKOO SONG ...................................................................................................................................17
THE ISLANDS ......................................................................................................................................19
AT BAIA...............................................................................................................................................22
SEA HEROES.......................................................................................................................................23
"NOT HONEY".....................................................................................................................................24
EVADNE...............................................................................................................................................25
SONG .....................................................................................................................................................26
WHY HAVE YOU SOUGHT ...............................................................................................................27
THE WHOLE WHITE WORLD ...........................................................................................................27
PHAEDRA .............................................................................................................................................28
SHE CONTRASTS WITH HERSELF HIPPOLYTA ...........................................................................29
SHE REBUKES HIPPOLYTA.............................................................................................................31
EGYPT ...................................................................................................................................................32
HELIOS.................................................................................................................................................34
PRAYER ................................................................................................................................................35
HYMEN
i
Page No 3
HYMEN
H.D.
HYMEN
DEMETER
SIMAETHA
THETIS
CIRCE
LEDA
HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES
CUCKOO SONG
THE ISLANDS
AT BAIA
SEA HEROES
"NOT HONEY"
EVADNE
SONG
WHY HAVE YOU SOUGHT
THE WHOLE WHITE WORLD
PHAEDRA
SHE CONTRASTS WITH HERSELF HIPPOLYTA
SHE REBUKES HIPPOLYTA
EGYPT
HELIOS
PRAYER
FOR BRYHER AND PERDITA
They said:
she is high and far and blind
in her high pride,
but now that my head is bowed
in sorrow, I find
she is most kind.
We have taken life, they said,
blithely, not groped in a mist
for things that are not-
are if you will, but bloodless-
why ask happiness of the dead?
and my heart bled.
Ah, could they know
how violets throw strange fire,
HYMEN 1
Page No 4
red and purple and gold,
how they glow
gold and purple and red
where her feet tread.
HYMEN
As from a temple service, tall and dignified, with slow pace, each a queen, the sixteen matrons from the
temple of Hera pass before the curtain-a dark purple hung between Ionic columns-of the porch or open hall of
a palace. Their hair is bound as the marble hair of the temple Hera. Each wears a crown or diadem of gold.
They sing-the music is temple music, deep, simple chanting notes:
From the closed garden
Where our feet pace
Back and forth each day,
This gladiolus white,
This red, this purple spray-
Gladiolus tall with dignity
As yours, lady-we lay
Before your feet and pray:
Of all the blessings-
Youth, joy, ecstasy-
May one gift last
(As the tall gladiolus may
Outlast the windflower,
Winterrose or rose),
One gift above,
Encompassing all those;
For her, for him,
For all within these palace walls,
Beyond the feast,
Beyond the cry of Hymen and the torch,
Beyond the night and music
Echoing through the porch till day.
The music, with its deep chanting notes, dies away. The curtain hangs motionless in rich, full folds. Then
from this background of darkness, dignity and solemn repose, a flute gradually detaches itself, becomes
clearer and clearer, pipes alone one shrill, simple little melody.
From the distance, four children's voices blend with the flute, and four very little girls pass singly before the
curtain, small maids or attendants of the sixteen matrons. Their hair is short and curls at the back of their
heads like the hair of the chryselephantine Hermes. They sing:
Where the first crocus buds unfold
HYMEN
HYMEN 2
Page No 5
We found these petals near the cold
Swift riverbed.
Beneath the rocks where ivyfrond
Puts forth new leaves to gleam beyond
Those lately dead:
The very smallest two or three
Of gold (gold pale as ivory)
We gatherèd.
When the little girls have passed before the curtain, a woodwind weaves a richer note into the flute melody;
then the two blend into one song. But as the woodwind grows in mellowness and richness, the flute
gradually dies away into a secondary theme and the woodwind alone evolves the melody of a new song.
Two by two-like two sets of medallions with twin profiles distinct, one head slightly higher, bent forward a
little-the four figures of four slight, rather fragile taller children, are outlined with sharp white contour against
the curtain.
The hair is smooth against the heads, falling to the shoulders, but slightly waved against the nape of the neck.
They are looking down, each at a spray of winterrose. The tunics fall to the knees in sharp marble folds.
They sing:
Never more will the wind
Cherish you again,
Never more will the rain.
Never more
Shall we find you bright
In the snow and wind.
The snow is melted,
The snow is gone,
And you are flown:
Like a bird out of our hand,
Like a light out of our heart,
You are gone.
As the wistful notes of the woodwind gradually die away, there comes a sudden, shrill, swift piping.
Free and wild, like the woodmaidens of Artemis, is this last group of four-very straight with heads tossed
back. They sing in rich, free, swift notes. They move swiftly before the curtain in contrast to the slow,
important pace of the first two groups. Their hair is loose and rayed out like that of the sungod. They are
boyish in shape and gesture. They carry hyacinths in baskets, strapped like quivers to their backs. They reach
to draw the flower sprays from the baskets, as the Huntress her arrows.
As they dart swiftly to and fro before the curtain, they are youth, they are spring-they are the Chelidonia, their
song is the swallowsong of joy:
Between the hollows
HYMEN
HYMEN 3
Page No 6
Of the little hills
The spring spills blue-
Turquoise, sapphire, lapislazuli-
On a brown cloth outspread.
Ah see,
How carefully we lay them now,
Each hyacinth spray,
Across the marble floor-
A pattern your bent eyes
May trace and follow
To the shut bridal door.
Lady, our love, our dear,
Our bride most fair,
They grew among the hollows
Of the hills;
As if the sea had spilled its blue,
As if the sea had risen
From its bed,
And sinking to the level of the shore,
Left hyacinths on the floor.
There is a pause. Flute, pipe and woodwind blend in a full, rich movement. There is no definite melody but
full, powerful rhythm like soft but steady wind above forest trees. Into this, like rain, gradually creeps the
note of strings.
As the strings grow stronger and finally dominate the whole, the bridechorus passes before the curtain.
There may be any number in this chorus. The figures-tall young women, clothed in long white tunics-follow
one another closely, yet are all distinct like a procession of a temple frieze.
The bride in the center is not at first distinguishable from her maidens; but as they begin their song, the
maidens draw apart into two groups, leaving the veiled symbolic figure standing alone in the center.
The two groups range themselves to right and left like officiating priestesses. The veiled figure stands with
her back against the curtain, the others being in profile. Her head is swathed in folds of diaphanous white,
through which the features are visible, like the veiled Tanagra.
When the song is finished, the group to the bride's left turns about; also the bride, so that all face in one
direction. In processional form they pass out, the figure of the bride again merging, not distinguishable from
the maidens.
Strophe
But of her
Who can say if she is fair?
Bound with fillet,
Bound with myrtle
Underneath her flowing veil,
Only the soft length
(Beneath her dress)
Of saffron shoe is bright
HYMEN
HYMEN 4
Page No 7
As a great lilyheart
In its white loveliness.
Antistrophe
But of her
We can say that she is fair.
We bleached the fillet,
Brought the myrtle;
To us the task was set
Of knotting the fine threads of silk:
We fastened the veil,
And over the white foot
Drew on the painted shoe
Steeped in Illyrian crocus.
Strophe
But of her,
Who can say if she is fair?
For her head is covered over
With her mantle
White on white,
Snow on whiter amaranth,
Snow on hoarfrost,
Snow on snow,
Snow on whitest buds of myrrh.
Antistrophe
But of her,
We can say that she is fair;
For we know underneath
All the wanness,
All the heat
(In her blanched face)
Of desire
Is caught in her eyes as fire
In the dark center leaf
Of the white Syrian iris.
The rather hard, hieratic precision of the music-its stately pause and beat-is broken now into irregular lilt and
rhythm of strings.
Four tall young women, very young matrons, enter in a group. They stand clear and fair, but this little group
entirely lacks the austere precision of the procession of maidens just preceding them. They pause in the center
of the stage; turn, one threequarter, two in profile and the fourth full face; they stand, turned as if confiding
in each other like a Tanagra group.
They sing lightly, their flower trays under their arms.
Along the yellow sand
Above the rocks
The laurelbushes stand.
HYMEN
HYMEN 5
Page No 8
Against the shimmering heat
Each separate leaf
Is bright and cold,
And through the bronze
Of shining bark and wood
Run the fine threads of gold.
Here in our wickertrays,
We bring the first faint blossoming
Of fragrant bays:
Lady, their blushes shine
As faint in hue
As when through petals
Of a laurelrose
The sun shines through,
And throws a purple shadow
On a marble vase.
(Ah, love,
So her fair breasts will shine
With the faint shadow above.)
The harp chords become again more regular in simple definite rhythm. The music is not so intense as the
bridechorus; and quieter, more sedate, than the notes preceding the entrance of the last group.
Five or six slightly older serene young women enter in processional form; each holding before her, with
precise bending of arms, coverlets and linen, carefully folded, as if for the bride couch. The garments are
purple, scarlet and deep blue, with edge of gold.
They sing to blending of woodwind and harp.
From citronbower be her bed,
Cut from branch of tree aflower,
Fashioned for her maidenhead.
From Lydian apples, sweet of hue,
Cut the width of board and lathe.
Carve the feet from myrtlewood.
Let the palings of her bed
Be quince and boxwood overlaid
With the scented bark of yew.
That all the wood in blossoming,
May calm her heart and cool her blood
For losing of her maidenhood.
The woodwinds become more rich and resonant. A tall youth crosses the stage as if seeking the bride door.
The music becomes very rich, full of color.
HYMEN
HYMEN 6
Page No 9
The figure itself is a flame, an exaggerated symbol; the hair a flame; the wings, deep red or purple, stand out
against the curtains in a contrasting or almost clashing shade of purple. The tunic, again a rich purple or
crimson, falls almost to the knees. The knees are bare; the sandals elaborately strapped over and over. The
curtain seems a rich purple cloud, the figure, still brighter, like a flamboyant bird, half emerged in the sunset.
Love pauses just outside the bride's door with his gift, a tuft of blackpurple cyclamen. He sings to the
accompaniment of woodwinds, in a rich, resonant voice:
The crimson cover of her bed
Is not so rich, nor so deeply bled
The purplefish that dyed it red,
As when in a hot sheltered glen
There flowered these stalks of cyclamen:
(Purple with honeypoints
Of horns for petals;
Sweet and dark and crisp,
As fragrant as her maiden kiss.)
There with his honeyseeking lips
The bee clings close and warmly sips,
And seeks with honeythighs to sway
And drink the very flower away.
(Ah, stern the petals drawing back;
Ah rare, ah virginal her breath!)
Crimson, with honeyseeking lips,
The sun lies hot across his back,
The gold is flecked across his wings.
Quivering he sways and quivering clings
(Ah, rare her shoulders drawing back!)
One moment, then the plunderer slips
Between the purple flowerlips.
Love passes out with a crash of cymbals. There is a momentary pause and the music falls into its calm,
wavelike rhythm.
A band of boys passes before the curtain. They pass from side to side, crossing and recrossing; but their
figures never confuse one another, the outlines are never blurred. They stand out against the curtain with
symbolic gesture, stooping as if to gather up the wreaths, or swaying with long stiff branch as if to sweep the
fallen petals from the floor.
There is no marked melody from the instruments, but the boys' voices, humming lightly as they enter,
gradually evolve a little dance song. There are no words but the lilt up and down of the boys' tenor voices.
Then, as if they had finished the task of gathering up the wreaths and sweeping the petals, they stand in
groups of two before the pillars where the torches have been placed. They lift the torches from the brackets.
HYMEN
HYMEN 7
Page No 10
They hold them aloft between them, one torch to each two boys. Their figures are cut against the curtain like
the simple, triangular design on the base of a vase or frieze-the boys' heads on a level, the torches above
them.
They sing in clear, halfsubdued voices:
Where love is king,
Ah, there is little need
To dance and sing,
With bridaltorch to flare
Amber and scatter light
Across the purple air,
To sing and dance
To flutenote and to reed.
Where love is come
(Ah, love is come indeed!)
Our limbs are numb
Before his fiery need;
With all their glad
Rapture of speech unsaid,
Before his fiery lips
Our lips are mute and dumb.
Ah, sound of reed,
Ah, flute and trumpet wail,
Ah, joy decreed-
The fringes of her veil
Are seared and white;
Across the flare of light,
Blinded the torches fail.
(Ah, love is come indeed!)
At the end of the song, the torches flicker out and the figures are no longer distinguishable in the darkness.
They pass out like shadows. The purple curtain hangs black and heavy.
The music dies away and is finally cut short with a few deep, muted chords.
DEMETER
I
Men, fires, feasts,
steps of temple, forestone, lintel,
HYMEN
DEMETER 8
Page No 11
step of white altar, fire and afterfire,
slaughter before,
fragment of burnt meat,
deep mystery, grapple of mind to reach
the tense thought,
power and wealth, purpose and prayer alike,
(men, fires, feasts, temple steps)- useless.
Useless to me who plant
wide feet on a mighty plinth,
useless to me who sit,
wide of shoulder, great of thigh,
heavy in gold, to press
gold back against solid back
of the marble seat:
useless the dragons wrought on the arms,
useless the poppybuds and the gold inset
of the spray of wheat.
Ah they have wrought me heavy
and great of limb-
she is slender of waist,
slight of breast, made of many fashions;
they have set her small feet
on many a plinth;
she they have known,
she they have spoken with,
she they have smiled upon,
she they have caught
and flattered with praise and gifts.
But useless the flattery
of the mighty power
they have granted me:
for I will not stay in her breast,
the great of limb,
though perfect the shell they have
fashioned me, these men!
Do I sit in the marketplace-
do I smile, does a noble brow
bend like the brow of Zeus-
am I a spouse, his or any,
am I a woman, or goddess or queen,
to be met by a god with a smile-and left?
II
Do you ask for a scroll,
HYMEN
DEMETER 9
Page No 12
parchment, oracle, prophecy, precedent;
do you ask for tablets marked with thought
or words cut deep on the marble surface,
do you seek measured utterance or the mystic trance?
Sleep on the stones of Delphi-
dare the ledges of Pallas
but keep me foremost,
keep me before you, after you, with you,
never forget when you start
for the Delphic precipice,
never forget when you seek Pallas
and meet in thought
yourself drawn out from yourself
like the holy serpent,
never forget
in thought or mysterious trance-
I am greatest and least.
Soft are the hands of Love,
soft, soft are his feet;
you who have twined myrtle,
have you brought crocuses,
white as the inner
stript bark of the osier,
have you set
black crocus against the black
locks of another?
III
Of whom do I speak?
Many the children of gods
but first I take
Bromios, fostering prince,
lift from the ivy brake, a king.
Enough of the lightning,
enough of the tales that speak
of the death of the mother:
strange tales of a shelter
brought to the unborn,
enough of tale, myth, mystery, precedent-
a child lay on the earth asleep.
Soft are the hands of Love,
but what soft hands
clutched at the thorny ground,
scratched like a small white ferret
HYMEN
DEMETER 10
Page No 13
or foraging whippet or hound,
sought nourishment and found
only the crackling of ivy,
dead ivy leaf and the white
berry, food for a bird,
no food for this who sought,
bending small head in a fever,
whining with little breath.
Ah, small black head,
ah, the purple ivy bush,
ah, berries that shook and spilt
on the form beneath,
who begot you and left?
Though I begot no man child
all my days,
the child of my heart and spirit,
is the child the gods desert
alike and the mother in death-
the unclaimed Dionysos.
IV
What of her-
mistress of Death?
Form of a golden wreath
were my hands that girt her head,
fingers that strove to meet,
and met where the whisps escaped
from the fillet, of tenderest gold,
small circlet and slim
were my fingers then.
Now they are wrought of iron
to wrest from earth
secrets; strong to protect,
strong to keep back the winter
when winter tracks too soon
blanch the forest:
strong to break dead things,
the young tree, drained of sap,
the old tree, ready to drop,
to lift from the rotting bed
of leaves, the old
crumbling pine tree stock,
to heap bole and knot of fir
and pine and resinous oak,
till fire shatter the dark
HYMEN
DEMETER 11
Page No 14
and hope of spring
rise in the hearts of men.
What of her-
mistress of Death-
what of his kiss?
Ah, strong were his arms to wrest
slight limbs from the beautiful earth,
young hands that plucked the first
buds of the chill narcissus,
soft fingers that broke
and fastened the thorny stalk
with the flower of wild acanthus.
Ah, strong were the arms that took
(ah, evil the heart and graceless),
but the kiss was less passionate!
SIMAETHA
Drenched with purple,
drenched with dye, my wool,
bind you the wheelspokes-
turn, turn, turn my wheel!
Drenched with purple,
steeped in the red pulp
of bursting seasloes-
turn, turn, turn my wheel!
(Ah did he think
I did not know,
I did not feel-
what wrack, what weal for him:
golden one, golden one,
turn again Aphrodite with the yellow zone,
I am cursed, cursed, undone!
Ah and my face, Aphrodite,
beside your gold,
is cut out of white stone!)
Laurel blossom and the red seed
of the red vervain weed,
burn, crackle in the fire,
burn, crackle for my need!
Laurel leaf, O fruited
HYMEN
SIMAETHA 12
Page No 15
branch of bay,
burn, bum away
thought, memory and hurt!
(Ah when he comes,
stumbling across my sill,
will he find me still,
fragrant as the white privet,
or as a bone,
polished in wet and sun,
worried of wild beaks,
and of the whelps' teeth-
worried of flesh,
left to bleach under the sun,
white as ash bled of heat,
white as hail blazing in sheetlightning,
white as forked lightning
rending the sleet?)
THETIS
I
On the paved parapet
you will step carefully
from amber stones to onyx
flecked with violet,
mingled with light,
half showing the seagrass
and seasand underneath,
reflecting your white feet
and the gay strap crimson
as lilybuds of Arion,
and the gold that binds your feet.
II
You will pass
beneath the island disk
(and myrtlewood,
the carved support of it)
and the white stretch
of its white beach,
curved as the moon crescent
or ivory when some fine hand
chisels it:
HYMEN
THETIS 13
Page No 16
when the sun slips
through the far edge,
there is rare amber
through the sea,
and flecks of it
glitter on the dolphin's back
and jewelled halter
and harness and bit
as he sways under it.
CIRCE
It was easy enough
to bend them to my wish,
it was easy enough
to alter them with a touch,
but you
adrift on the great sea,
how shall I call you back?
Cedar and white ash,
rockcedar and sand plants
and tamarisk
red cedar and white cedar
and black cedar from the inmost forest,
fragrance upon fragrance
and all of my seamagic is for nought.
It was easy enough-
a thought called them
from the sharp edges of the earth;
they prayed for a touch,
they cried for the sight of my face,
they entreated me
till in pity
I turned each to his own self.
Panther and panther,
then a black leopard
follows close-
black panther and red
and a great hound,
a godlike beast,
HYMEN
CIRCE 14
Page No 17
cut the sand in a clear ring
and shut me from the earth,
and cover the seasound
with their throats,
and the searoar with their own barks
and bellowing and snarls,
and the seastars
and the swirl of the sand,
and the rocktamarisk
and the wind resonance-
but not your voice.
It is easy enough to call men
from the edges of the earth.
It is easy enough to summon them to my feet
with a thought-
it is beautiful to see the tall panther
and the sleek deerhounds
circle in the dark.
It is easy enough
to make cedar and white ash fumes
into palaces
and to cover the seacaves
with ivory and onyx.
But I would give up
rockfringes of coral
and the inmost chamber
of my island palace
and my own gifts
and the whole region
of my power and magic
for your glance.
LEDA
Where the slow river
meets the tide,
a red swan lifts red wings
and darker beak,
and underneath the purple down
HYMEN
LEDA 15
Page No 18
of his soft breast
uncurls his coral feet.
Through the deep purple
of the dying heat
of sun and mist,
the level ray of sunbeam
has caressed
the lily with dark breast,
and flecked with richer gold
its golden crest.
Where the slow lifting
of the tide,
floats into the river
and slowly drifts
among the reeds,
and lifts the yellow flags,
he floats
where tide and river meet.
Ah kingly kiss-
no more regret
nor old deep memories
to mar the bliss;
where the low sedge is thick,
the gold daylily
outspreads and rests
beneath soft fluttering
of red swan wings
and the warm quivering
of the red swan's breast.
HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES
I worship the greatest first-
(it were sweet, the couch,
the brighter ripple of cloth
over the dipped fleece;
the thought: her bones
under the flesh are white
as sand which along a beach
covers but keeps the print
HYMEN
HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES 16
Page No 19
of the crescent shapes beneath:
I thought:
between cloth and fleece,
so her body lies.)
I worship first, the great-
(ah, sweet, your eyes-
what God, invoked in Crete,
gave them the gift to part
as the Sidonian myrtleflower
suddenly, wide and swart,
then swiftly,
the eyelids having provoked our hearts-
as suddenly beat and close.)
I worship the feet, flawless,
that haunt the hills-
(ah, sweet, dare I think,
beneath fetter of golden clasp,
of the rhythm, the fall and rise
of yours, carven, slight
beneath straps of gold that keep
their slender beauty caught,
like wings and bodies
of trapped birds.)
I worship the greatest first-
(suddenly into my brain-
the flash of sun on the snow,
the fringe of light and the drift,
the crest and the hillshadow-
ah, surely now I forget,
ah splendour, my goddess turns:
or was it the sudden heat,
beneath quivering of molten flesh,
of veins, purple as violets?)
CUCKOO SONG
Ah, bird,
our love is never spent
with your clear note,
nor satiate our soul;
HYMEN
CUCKOO SONG 17
Page No 20
not song, not wail, not hurt,
but just a call summons us
with its simple topnote
and soft fall;
not to some rarer heaven
of lilies overtall,
nor tuberose set against
some sunlit wall,
but to a gracious
cedarpalace hall;
not marble set with purple
hung with roses and tall
sweet lilies- such
as the nightingale
would summon for us
with her wail-
(surely only unhappiness
could thrill
such a rich madrigal!)
not she, the nightingale
can fill our souls
with such a wistful joy as this:
nor, bird, so sweet
was ever a swallow note-
not hers, so perfect
with the wing of lazuli
and bright breast-
nor yet the oriole
filling with melody
from her fiery throat
some islandorchard
in a purple sea.
Ah dear, ah gentle bird,
you spread warm length
of crimson wool
and tinted woven stuff
for us to rest upon,
nor numb with ecstasy
nor drown with death:
only you soothe, make still
the throbbing of our brain:
so through her forest trees,
when all her hope was gone
and all her pain,
Calypso heard your call-
HYMEN
CUCKOO SONG 18
Page No 21
across the gathering drift
of burning cedarwood,
across the lowset bed
of wandering parsley and violet,
when all her hope was dead.
THE ISLANDS
I
What are the islands to me,
what is Greece,
what is Rhodes, Samos, Chios,
what is Paros facing west,
what is Crete?
What is Samothrace,
rising like a ship,
what is Imbros rending the stormwaves
with its breast?
What is Naxos, Paros, Milos,
what the circle about Lycia,
what, the Cyclades'
white necklace?
What is Greece-
Sparta, rising like a rock,
Thebes, Athens,
what is Corinth?
What is Euboia
with its island violets,
what is Euboia, spread with grass,
set with swift shoals,
what is Crete?
What are the islands to me,
what is Greece?
II
HYMEN
THE ISLANDS 19
Page No 22
What can love of land give to me
that you have not-
what do the tall Spartans know,
and gentler Attic folk?
What has Sparta and her women
more than this?
What are the islands to me
if you are lost-
what is Naxos, Tinos, Andros,
and Delos, the clasp
of the white necklace?
III
What can love of land give to me
that you have not,
what can love of strife break in me
that you have not?
Though Sparta enter Athens,
Thebes wrack Sparta,
each changes as water,
salt, rising to wreak terror
and fall back.
IV
"What has love of land given to you
that I have not?"
I have questioned Tyrians
where they sat
on the black ships,
weighted with rich stuffs,
I have asked the Greeks
from the white ships,
and Greeks from ships whose hulks
lay on the wet sand, scarlet
with great beaks.
I have asked bright Tyrians
and tall Greeks-
"what has love of land given you?"
And they answered- "peace."
V
But beauty is set apart,
beauty is cast by the sea,
HYMEN
THE ISLANDS 20
Page No 23
a barren rock,
beauty is set about
with wrecks of ships,
upon our coast, death keeps
the shallows-death waits
clutching toward us
from the deeps.
Beauty is set apart;
the winds that slash its beach,
swirl the coarse sand
upward toward the rocks.
Beauty is set apart
from the islands
and from Greece.
VI
In my garden
the winds have beaten
the ripe lilies;
in my garden, the salt
has wilted the first flakes
of young narcissus,
and the lesser hyacinth,
and the salt has crept
under the leaves of the white hyacinth.
In my garden
even the windflowers lie flat,
broken by the wind at last.
VII
What are the islands to me
if you are lost,
what is Paros to me
if your eyes draw back,
what is Milos
if you take fright of beauty,
terrible, torturous, isolated,
a barren rock?
What is Rhodes, Crete,
what is Paros facing west,
what, white Imbros?
What are the islands to me
if you hesitate,
HYMEN
THE ISLANDS 21
Page No 24
what is Greece if you draw back
from the terror
and cold splendour of song
and its bleak sacrifice?
AT BAIA
I should have thought
in a dream you would have brought
some lovely, perilous thing,
orchids piled in a great sheath,
as who would say (in a dream)
I send you this,
who left the blue veins
of your throat unkissed.
Why was it that your hands
(that never took mine)
your hands that I could see
drift over the orchid heads
so carefully,
your hands, so fragile, sure to lift
so gently, the fragile flower stuff-
ah, ah, how was it
You never sent (in a dream)
the very form, the very scent,
not heavy, not sensuous,
but perilous-perilous-
of orchids, piled in a great sheath,
and folded underneath on a bright scroll
some word:
Flower sent to flower;
for white hands, the lesser white,
less lovely of flower leaf,
or
Lover to lover, no kiss,
no touch, but forever and ever this.
HYMEN
AT BAIA 22
Page No 25
SEA HEROES
Crash on crash of the sea,
straining to wreck men, seaboards, continents,
raging against the world, furious,
stay at last, for against your fury
and your mad fight,
the line of heroes stands, godlike:
Akroneos, Oknolos, Elatreus,
helmofboat, loosenerofhelm, dwellerbysea,
Nauteus, seaman,
Prumneos, sternofship,
Agchialos, seagirt,
Elatreus, oarshaft:
loverofthesea, loveroftheseaebb,
loveroftheswiftsea,
Ponteus, Proreus, Ooos:
Anabesneos, one caught between
waveshock and waveshock:
Eurualos, broad seawrack,
like Ares, man's death,
and Naubolides, best in shape,
of all first in size:
Phaekous, seas' thunderbolt-
ah, crash on crash of great names-
mantamer, man'shelp, perfect Laodamos:
and last the sons of great Alkinoos,
Laodamos, Halios and godlike Clytomeos.
Of all nations, of all cities,
of all continents,
she is favoured among the rest,
for she gives men as great as the sea,
valorous to the fight,
to battle against the elements and evil:
greater even than the sea,
they live beyond wrack and death of cities,
and each godlike name spoken
is as a shrine in a godless place.
But to name you,
HYMEN
SEA HEROES 23
Page No 26
we reverent are breathless,
weak with pain and old loss,
and exile and despair-
our hearts break but to speak
your name, Oknaleos-
and may we but call you in the feverish wrack
of our stormstrewn beach, Eretmeos,
and our hurt is quiet and our hearts tamed,
as the sea may yet be tamed,
and we vow to float great ships,
named for each hero,
and oarblades, cut out of mountaintrees
as such men might have shaped:
Eretmeos and the sea is swept,
baffled by the lordly shape,
Akroneos has pines for his ship's keel;
to love, to mate the sea?
Ah there is Ponteos,
the very deeps roar,
hailing you dear-
they clamour to Ponteos,
and to Proeos
leap, swift to kiss, to curl, to creep,
lover to mistress.
What wave, what love, what foam,
for Ooos who moves swift as the sea?
Ah stay, my heart, the weight
of lovers, of loneliness
drowns me,
alas that their very names
so press to break my heart
with heartsick weariness,
what would they be,
the very gods,
rearing their mighty length
beside the unharvested sea?
"NOT HONEY"
Not honey,
not the plunder of the bee
from meadow or sandflower
or mountain bush;
from winterflower or shoot
born of the later heat:
HYMEN
"NOT HONEY" 24
Page No 27
not honey, not the sweet
stain on the lips and teeth:
not honey, not the deep
plunge of soft belly
and the clinging of the goldedged
pollendusted feet.
Not so-
though rapture blind my eyes,
and hunger crisp
dark and inert my mouth,
not honey, not the south,
not the tall stalk
of red twinlilies,
nor light branch of fruit tree
caught in flexible light branch.
Not honey, not the south;
ah flower of purple iris,
flower of white,
or of the iris, withering the grass-
for fleck of the sun's fire,
gathers such heat and power,
that shadowprint is light,
cast through the petals
of the yellow iris flower.
Not iris-old desire-old passion-
old forgetfulness-old pain-
not this, nor any flower,
but if you turn again,
seek strength of arm and throat,
touch as the god;
neglect the lyrenote;
knowing that you shall feel,
about the frame,
no trembling of the string
but heat, more passionate
of bone and the white shell
and fiery tempered steel.
EVADNE
I first tasted under Apollo's lips
HYMEN
EVADNE 25
Page No 28
love and love sweetness,
I Evadne;
my hair is made of crisp violets
or hyacinth which the wind combs back
across some rock shelf;
I Evadne
was mate of the god of light.
His hair was crisp to my mouth
as the flower of the crocus,
across my cheek,
cool as the silver cress
on Erotos bank;
between my chin and throat
his mouth slipped over and over.
Still between my arm and shoulder,
I feel the brush of his hair,
and my hands keep the gold they took
as they wandered over and over
that great armfull of yellow flowers.
SONG
You are as gold
as the halfripe grain
that merges to gold again,
as white as the white rain
that beats through
the halfopened flowers
of the great flower tufts
thick on the black limbs
of an Illyrian apple bough.
Can honey distill such fragrance
as your bright hair-
for your face is as fair as rain,
yet as rain that lies clear
on white honeycomb,
lends radiance to the white wax,
so your hair on your brow
casts light for a shadow.
HYMEN
SONG 26
Page No 29
WHY HAVE YOU SOUGHT
Why have you sought the Greeks, Eros,
when such delight was yours
in the far depth of sky:
there you could note bright ivory
take colour where she bent her face,
and watch fair gold shed gold
on radiant surface of porch and pillar:
and ivory and bright gold,
polished and lustrous grow faint
beside that wondrous flesh
and print of her foothold:
Love, why do you tempt the Grecian porticoes?
Here men are bent with thought
and women waste fair moments
gathering lint and pricking coloured stuffs
to mar their breasts,
while she, adored,
wastes not her fingers,
worn of fire and sword,
wastes not her touch
on linen and fine thread,
wastes not her head
in thought and pondering;
Love, why have you sought the horde
of spearsmen, why the tent
Achilles pitched beside the riverford?
THE WHOLE WHITE WORLD
The whole white world is ours,
and the world, purple with rosebays,
bays, bush on bush,
HYMEN
WHY HAVE YOU SOUGHT 27
Page No 30
group, thicket, hedge and tree,
dark islands in a sea
of greygreen olive or wild whiteolive,
cut with the sudden cypress shafts,
in clusters, two or three,
or with one slender, single cypresstree.
Slid from the hill,
as crumbling snowpeaks slide,
citron on citron fill
the valley, and delight
waits till our spirits tire
of forest, grove and bush
and purple flower of the laureltree
Yet not one wearies,
joined is each to each
in happiness complete
with bush and flower:
ours is the windbreath
at the hot noonhour,
ours is the bee's soft belly
and the blush of the rosepetal,
lifted, of the flower.
PHAEDRA
Think, O my soul,
of the red sand of Crete;
think of the earth; the heat
burnt fissures like the great
backs of the temple serpents;
think of the world you knew;
as the tide crept, the land
burned with a lizardblue
where the dark sea met the sand.
Think, O my soul-
what power has struck you blind-
Is there no desertroot, no forestberry
pinepitch or knot of fir
known that can help the soul
caught in a force, a power,
HYMEN
PHAEDRA 28
Page No 31
passionless, not its own?
So I scatter, so implore
Gods of Crete, summoned before
with slighter craft;
ah, hear my prayer:
Grant to my soul
the body that it wore,
trained to your thought,
that kept and held your power,
as the petal of black poppy,
the opiate of the flower.
For art undreamt in Crete,
strange art and dire,
in countercharm prevents my charm
limits my power:
pinecone I heap,
grant answer to my prayer.
No more, my soul-
as the black cup, sullen and dark with fire,
burns till beside it, noon's bright heat
is withered, filled with dust-
and into that noonheat
grown drab and stale,
suddenly wind and thunder and swift rain,
till the scarlet flower is wrecked
in the slash of the white hail.
The poppy that my heart was,
formed to bind all mortals,
made to strike and gather hearts
like flame upon an altar,
fades and shrinks, a red leaf
drenched and torn in the cold rain.
SHE CONTRASTS WITH HERSELF HIPPOLYTA
Can flame beget white steel-
HYMEN
SHE CONTRASTS WITH HERSELF HIPPOLYTA 29
Page No 32
ah no, it could not take
within my reins its shelter;
steel must seek steel,
or hate make out of joy
a whetstone for a sword;
sword against flint,
Theseus sought Hippolyta;
she yielded not nor broke,
sword upon stone,
from the clash leapt a spark,
Hippolytus, born of hate.
What did she think
when all her strength
was twisted for his bearing;
did it break,
even within her sheltered heart, a song,
some whispered note,
distant and faint as this:
Love that I bear
within my breast
how is my armour melted
how my heart:
as an oaktree
that keeps beneath the snow,
the young bark fresh
till the spring cast
from off its shoulders
the white snow
so does my armour melt.
Love that I bear
within my heart, O speak;
tell how beneath the serpentspotted shell,
the cygnets wait,
how the soft owl
opens and flicks with pride,
eyelids of great birdeyes,
when underneath its breast
the owlets shrink and turn.
You have the power,
(then did she say) Artemis,
benignity to grant
forgiveness that I gave
no quarter to an enemy who cast
his armour on the forestmoss,
and took, unmatched in an uneven contest,
Hippolyta who relented not,
HYMEN
SHE CONTRASTS WITH HERSELF HIPPOLYTA 30
Page No 33
returned and sought no kiss.
Then did she pray: Artemis,
grant that no flower
be grafted alien on a broken stalk,
no dark flamelaurel on the stricken crest
of a wild mountainpoplar;
grant in my thought,
I never yield but wait,
entreating cold white river,
mountainpool and salt:
let all my veins be ice,
until they break
(strength of white beach,
rock of mountain land,
forever to you, Artemis, dedicate)
from out my reins,
those small, cold hands.
SHE REBUKES HIPPOLYTA
Was she so chaste?
Swift and a broken rock
clatters across the steep shelf
of the mountain slope,
sudden and swift
and breaks as it clatters down
into the hollow breach
of the dried watercourse:
far and away
(through fire I see it,
and smoke of the dead, withered stalks
of the wild cistusbrush)
Hippolyta, frail and wild,
galloping up the slope
between great boulder and rock
and group and cluster of rock.
Was she so chaste,
(I see it, sharp, this vision,
and each fleck on the horse's flanks
of foam, and bridle and bit,
HYMEN
SHE REBUKES HIPPOLYTA 31
Page No 34
silver, and the straps,
wrought with their perfect art,
and the sun,
striking athwart the silverwork,
and the neck, strained forward, ears alert,
and the head of a girl
flung back and her throat.)
Was she so chaste-
(Ah, burn my fire, I ask
out of the smokeringed darkness
enclosing the flaming disk
of my vision)
I ask for a voice to answer:
was she chaste?
Who can say-
the broken ridge of the hills
was the line of a lover's shoulder,
his armturn, the path to the hills,
the sudden leap and swift thunder
of mountain boulders, his laugh.
She was mad-
as no priest, no lover's cult
could grant madness;
the wine that entered her throat
with the touch of the mountain rocks
was white, intoxicant:
she, the chaste,
was betrayed by the glint
of light on the hills,
the granite splinter of rocks,
the touch of the stone
where heat melts
toward the shadowside of the rocks.
EGYPT
(To E. A. POE)
HYMEN
EGYPT 32
Page No 35
Egypt had cheated us,
for Egypt took
through guile and craft
our treasure and our hope,
Egypt had maimed us,
offered dream for life,
an opiate for a kiss,
and death for both.
White poison flower we loved
and the black spike
of an ungarnered bush-
(a spice-or without taste-
we wondered-then we asked
others to take and sip
and watched their death)
Egypt we loved, though hate
should have withheld our touch.
Egypt had given us knowledge,
and we took, blindly,
through want of heart,
what Egypt brought;
knowing all poison,
what was that or this,
more or less perilous,
than this or that.
We pray you, Egypt,
by what perverse fate,
has poison brought with knowledge,
given us this-
not days of trance,
shadow, foredoom of death,
but passionate grave thought,
belief enhanced,
ritual returned and magic;
Even in the uttermost black pit
of the forbidden knowledge,
wisdom's glance,
the grey eyes following
in the midmost desert-
great shaft of rose,
fire shed across our path,
upon the face grown grey, a light,
Hellas reborn from death.
HYMEN
EGYPT 33
Page No 36
HELIOS
Helios makes all things right:-
night brands and chokes
as if destruction broke
over furze and stone and crop
of myrtleshoot and fieldwort,
destroyed with flakes of iron,
the brackenstems,
where tender roots were sown,
blight, chaff and waste
of darkness to choke and drown.
A curious god to find,
yet in the end faithful;
bitter, the Kyprian's feet-
ah flecks of whited clay,
great hero, vaunted lord-
ah petal, dust and windfall
on the ground-queen awaiting queen.
Better the weight, they tell,
the helmet's beaten shell,
Athene's riven steel,
caught over the white skull,
Athene sets to heal
the few who merit it.
Yet even then, what help,
should he not turn and note
the height of forehead and the mark of conquest,
draw near and try the helmet;
to left-reset the crown
Athene weighted down,
or break with a light touch
mayhap the steel set to protect;
to slay or heal.
A treacherous god, they say,
yet who would wait to test
justice or worth or right,
when through a fetid night
is wafted faint and nearer-
then straight as point of steel
to one who courts swift death,
HYMEN
HELIOS 34
Page No 37
scent of Hesperidean orangespray.
PRAYER
White, O white face-
from disenchanted days
wither alike dark rose
and fiery bays:
no gift within our hands,
nor strength to praise,
only defeat and silence;
though we lift hands, disenchanted,
of small strength, nor raise
branch of the laurel
or the light of torch,
but fold the garment
on the riven locks,
yet hear, allmerciful, and touch
the forehead, dim, unlit of pride and thought,
Mistress-be near!
Give back the glamour to our will,
the thought; give back the tool,
the chisel; once we wrought
things not unworthy,
sandal and steelclasp;
silver and steel, the coat
with white leafpattern
at the arm and throat:
silver and metal, hammered for the ridge
of shield and helmetrim;
white silver with the darker hammered in,
belt, staff and magic spearshaft
with the gilt spark at the point and hilt.
HYMEN
PRAYER 35
Bookmarks
1. Table of Contents, page = 3
2. HYMEN, page = 4
3. H.D., page = 4
4. HYMEN, page = 5
5. DEMETER, page = 11
6. SIMAETHA, page = 15
7. THETIS, page = 16
8. CIRCE, page = 17
9. LEDA, page = 18
10. HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES, page = 19
11. CUCKOO SONG, page = 20
12. THE ISLANDS, page = 22
13. AT BAIA, page = 25
14. SEA HEROES, page = 26
15. "NOT HONEY", page = 27
16. EVADNE, page = 28
17. SONG, page = 29
18. WHY HAVE YOU SOUGHT, page = 30
19. THE WHOLE WHITE WORLD, page = 30
20. PHAEDRA, page = 31
21. SHE CONTRASTS WITH HERSELF HIPPOLYTA, page = 32
22. SHE REBUKES HIPPOLYTA, page = 34
23. EGYPT, page = 35
24. HELIOS, page = 37
25. PRAYER, page = 38