Collected Works (Vol. II)

106 THE ARGONAUTS Through me and burns me: all my flesh is teeming With the live kisses of the sea, my mate, My mistress, till the fires of life abate And leave me languid, man-forgotten, deem- ing I see in sleep, in many-coloured night, More hope than in the flame-waves of the light. Light ! ever light ! I swim far out and follow The footsteps of the wind, and light in- vades My desolate soul, and all the cypress shades Glow with transparent lustre, and the hollow I thought I had hidden in my heart must swallow . . The bitter draught of Truth; no Nereid maids Even in my sea are mine; the whole | sea’s plades And hills and springs are void of my Apollo— The Sea herself my tune and my desire ! The Sun himself my lover and my lyre! CHORUS. This song is sweeter than the honeycomb. MEDEA. Nearly as sweet as good friends quarrelling. JASON. Look, friends, methinks I see a silvern shape Like faint mist floating on the farthest sea. MEDEA. I see a barren rock above the tides. JASON. I hear a sound like water whispering. MEDEA. I hear a harsh noise like some ancient crone Muttering curses. JASON. Now [I hear a song. "Tis like some shape of sleep that moans for joy, Some bridal sob of love ! MEDEA. O Son of God ! My poet, swiftly leap the live lyre forth! Else we are all enchanted—yet to me This song is nowise lovely. But in him I note the live look of the eyes leap up, And all his love for me forgotten straight At the mere echo of that tune. ORPHEUS. . Hark, friends ! Aea’s tune—my Colchian harbour-song !! I hear the waters faint and far, And look to where the Polar Star, Half hidden in the haze, divides The double chanting of the tides; But, where the harbour’s gloomy mouth Welcomes the stranger to the south, The water shakes, and all the sea Grows silver suddenly. As one who standing on the moon Sees the vast horns in silver hewn, Himself in darkness, and beholds How silently all space unfolds | Into her shapeless breast the spark And sacred phantom of the dark ; So in the harbour-horns I stand Till I forget the land. Who sails through all that solemn space Out to the twilight’s secret place, The sleepy waters move below His ship’s imaginary flow. No song, no lute, so lowly chaunts In woods where still Arisbe haunts, Wrapping the wanderer with her tresses Into untold caresses. 1 The harbour in which this lyric was written was that of Vera Cruz.