Life Immovable Part 14

And when the high tide covered all the land, Making the pier a sea, the street a strand, And when the boat cast anchor at my threshold, Then from her home the little girl came forth Half bare, half clad, robed in the robe of light In a swift dancing flood that revelled full Of water-l.u.s.t and crowns of seething foam.

She gave her orders to the sea; she ruled The tide and forward drove the foaming waves, Just as a shepherd la.s.s, her white-clad sheep.

Her native country, first and last, the sea!

And whenever she pa.s.sed, a Venus new Seemed rising from the s.h.i.+ning water's depths.

The fisherman, a primitive world's breed, The sum of Christian and of Satyr blood, Returning from his fruitful fis.h.i.+ng path, Looked upon her as on an evil tempter And on a sacred image; and his oars Hung on his hands inert as palsy stricken, And the swift-winging bark stood like a rock; And, marble-like, the fisherman within Gazed with religious trembling and desire, Exclaiming as in trance: "O holy Virgin!"

AT THE WINDMILL

About the windmill, the old ruin, when The smile of dawn s.h.i.+nes in its rosy tinge, The fisherboys now stir the silent air With sudden ringing shouts and joyful plays; And the light barks that, fastened, wait their coming, Flutter impatiently like flapping wings Of birds whose feet are bound. And all about, The lake-like sea revels in s.h.i.+mmers white Like a wide-open pearl sh.e.l.l on the beach.

About the windmill, the old ruin, when The noon's beams burn like red-hot iron bars, A laden sleep draws with its heavy breath All weary skippers and all mariners: The harpoons creak not in the hand's hard clasp; The fish alone stir in the realm of dew; The calm lagoon about is all agleam, A s.h.i.+eld of silver, plaited with pure gold.

Far by the windmill, the old ruin, when The sun is setting, decked in all his glory, The boys go running, looking for pumice stones; And lads and la.s.ses, for sweet furtive glances; And old men, lingering for memories.

Old age is calm, and youth considerate.

And the lagoon about, a purple glow, A garden thickly planted with blue gentians.

Far by the windmill, the old ruin, when The secret midnight glides by silently, Sea Nereids, brought on the wings of air From the sea caves of Fairies on their steeds Of mist with manes of radiating light, Sing songs, and bathe their diamond forms, and love, While round about the princess-like lagoon Wears as her royal robe the star-spun sky.

Far by the windmill, the old ruin, ere The smile of dawn s.h.i.+ne with its rosy tinge, The hosts of tyrant slayers mount from below And kiss the earth war-nurtured and war-glad.

They raise again the ruin to a castle With rifles singing back to victories; And the lagoon is full of flashes swift, Like a dark eye kindled with fiery wrath.

WHAT THE LAGOON SAYS

I have the sweetness of the lake and have The bitterness of the great sea. But now, Alas! my sweetness is a little drop; My bitterness, a flood. For the cold winter, The great corsair, has come with the north wind, Death's king. My azure blood has slowly flowed Out of my veins and gone to bring new life To the deep seas. A shroud weed-woven wraps me.

My little islands as my tombstones stand, And yonder well-built weirs are like young trees That droop above my grave bereft of water.

But even so in the death's cold clasp, I hear Within my breast a secret voiceless flutter Like the young fish's flurry when, transfixed, It is dragged by the spear out of the sea.

For I still dream of the sweet breath of love, And wait for the hot summer's kiss and yours, O angels of good tidings and new life, Spring breezes, sources of my dreams and love!

PINKS

Fair pinks, with your breath, I have drunk your soul!

Brown is the fisherman, and brown the land With the sea brine, the south wind, and the sun; And round the brown land's neck, like necklace Of coral, grow the pinks. Pinks of the gardens, And pinks of the windows; pinks like crowns and stars; Gifts good for any hand, and ornaments For any breast. O flowers blossoming In pleasant rows along the houses' stairs, You sprinkle each man's path with fragrances; And now and then, you bow, touched by the dress Of the young girl who, breeze-like, pa.s.ses by.

Pinks full and pinks faint-colored; flowers that cause No languor as the roses nor refresh, Like jasmines, flesh and soul; but whose scent has Something of the sharp breath of the lagoon, Even when you are pale like fainting virgins, And even when a world-destroying fire Enflames your petals without burning you!

Pinks, that display now your form's nakedness Like children's bodies freshly bathed, and now The varied ornaments of senseless dwarfs, And now the purple of great emperors!

All the transporting music of the red, Like that of many tuneful instruments, Springs from your heart and knows no end, but plays Before my eyes its lasting harmonies.

Sweet pinks, with your breath, I have drunk your soul!

RUINS

I turned back to the golden haunts of childhood, And back on the white path of youth; I turned To see the wonder palace built for me Once by the holy hands of sacred Loves.

The path was hidden by the th.o.r.n.y briars; The golden haunts, burned by the midday sun; An earthquake brought the wonder palace low;

And now amidst the ruins and ashes, I Am left alone and palsy-stricken; snakes And lizards, pains and hatreds dwell now here In constant loathful brotherhood with me.

An earthquake brought the wonder palace low!

PENELOPE

Wars distant, tempests wild, and foreign lands Keep thy life-mate for years and years away; Dangers and scornings threaten thee; and care With guile and wrath gird thee, Penelope.

About thee, enemies and revellers!

But thou wilt hear, and look, and wait for none But him; and on thy loom thou weavest always And then unweavest the thread of thy true love, Penelope.

Than Europe's goods and Asia's Even a greater treasure is thy kiss; Thy loom, much higher than a royal throne; Thy brow an altar, O Penelope!

Mortals and G.o.ds know only one more priceless Than thine own loom, thy forehead, or thy kiss: Thy mate, the king thou always longest for, Penelope. Yet even though strange lands Keep him away from thee, and distant wars, And monstrous Scyllas, and the guileful Sirens, Not even they can blot him from thy soul, Him, thy thought's whitest light, Penelope!

A NEW ODE BY THE OLD ALCAEUS

To Lesbos' sh.o.r.es, where the year's seasons always Sprinkle the field with flowers, and where glad The rosy-footed Graces always play With the young maidens, once the stream of Hebrus, Hand-like, brought Orpheus' orphan lyre; and since That time, our island is a sacred shrine Of Harmony, and its wind's breath, a song!

The soul Aeolian took up the lyre Born upon Thracian lands, as foster child; And on its golden strings the restless beatings Of Sappho's and Erinna's flaming hearts Were echoed burningly.

And I, who fight Always against blind mobs and tyrants deaf, I, the pride of the chosen few, the stay Of the great best, returning from exile, A billow-tossed world-wanderer, did stir The selfsame lyre with a new quill and breathed Upon its strings a new heroic breath.

Upon the love-adorned and verdant island, Like a G.o.d's trident, now Alcaeus' quill Wakens the storm of sounds, and angrily He strikes with words that are like poisoned arrows Direct and merciless against his foe, Whether a Pittacus or Myrsilus.

In vain did tender love reveal before me On rose-beds Lycus, the young lad, with eyes And hair coal-black, with rosy garlands bound, And Sappho of the honeyed smile, the pure, A muse among the muses, and the mother Of a strange modesty. Love moved me not!

I raised an altar to the war-G.o.d Ares; And on my walls, I hung war ornaments, Weapons exulting in the battle's roar.