Collected Works (Vol. III)

LIBER QUARTUS VEL MORTIS 215 CALLIOPE. Ay! Ay! a woman’s silky tone Makes music for eternity her own, Till all men’s victories in song seem a dis- cordant groan. LESBIAN SHORE. _ Upon my cliffs of green, Beneath the azure skies, She stands with looks of fire, Sappho. Her hands between Lies the wild world; she flies From agony to agony of desire, CALLIOPE. Him, Orpheus, him she sings; Loosing the living strings, Till music fledged fares forth sunward on moon-wrought wings. LESBIAN SHORE. Yea, by the solar name, Orpheus her lips acclaim, The centre and the silence! O! the torrent of fine flame Like hair that shooteth forth To the ensanguine North Whence ran the drunken crew, Bassarids in their wrath. SAPPHO. Woe is me! the brow of a brazen morning Breaks in blood on water athirst of Hebrus. Sanguine horror starts on her hills tenebrous : Hell hath not heard her ! Dumb and still thy birds, O Apollo, scorning Song; yells drown them, lecherous anthems gabbled, Laughter splashed of Bassarids, blood-be- dabbled, Mad with their murder ! O thou many-coloured immortal maiden, Dawn! O dew, delight of a world! SOrrow Hides your holy faces awhile. To-morrow Comes for your calling? A Still the notes of musical Orpheus, laden Never now of pain or of failing, follow; Follow up the height, or adown the hollow Fairy are falli O my hopeless misery mind of longing ! O the anguish born in a breast unlovered ! Women, wail the face of a God uncovered, Brain dead and breath dumb! Wail the sense of infinite ardours thronging Fast and fast and faster athwart the heaven, Keen as light and cruel as fire, as levin Swift and as death dumb! Freedom, rapture, victory, fill the chorus, Dying, ever dying, among the billows ; Whispered, ever whispered among _ the willows :— Pour the libation ! Now springs up a notable age. Adore us Masters now of music above his magic, Lords of change, leaps pastoral up to tragic, Thanks to the Thracian! Ah, my pain! what desolate female bosoms, Smitten hearts of delicate males, uncover ; Grip not life for poet or sage or lover, Feed on derision. Yea, in these mature me avenger blossoms Swift as swords to sever the subtle ether, Lift the earth, see infinite space beneath her, Swoon at the vision. This, O Orpheus, this be a golden guerdon Unto thee for gift of amaze and wonder! This thy sorrow, sword of a heart asunder, Beareth a flower. This the heart of woman—a bitter burden !— Thou hast filled with seed—O a seed of _madness ! Seed of music! seed of a royal sadness !— This be our dower !