Poem: Charmides

I.     He was a Grecian lad, who coming home     With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily     Stood at his galley's prow, and let the foam     Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously,     And holding wave and wind in boy's despite     Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night.     Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear     Like a thin thread of gold against the sky,     And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear,     And bade the pilot head her lustily     Against the nor'west gale, and all day long     Held on his way, and marked the rowers' time with measured song.     And when the faint Corinthian hills were red     Dropped anchor in a little sandy bay,     And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head,     And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray,     And washed his limbs with oil, and from the hold     Brought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled,     And a rich robe stained with the fishers' juice     Which of some swarthy trader he had bought     Upon the sunny quay at Syracuse,     And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought,     And by the questioning merchants made his way     Up through the soft and silver woods, and when the labouring day     Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud,     Clomb the high hill, and with swift silent feet     Crept to the fane unnoticed by the crowd     Of busy priests, and from some dark retreat     Watched the young swains his frolic playmates bring     The firstling of their little flock, and the shy shepherd fling     The crackling salt upon the flame, or hang     His studded crook against the temple wall     To Her who keeps away the ravenous fang     Of the base wolf from homestead and from stall;     And then the clear-voiced maidens 'gan to sing,     And to the altar each man brought some goodly offering,     A beechen cup brimming with milky foam,     A fair cloth wrought with cunning imagery     Of hounds in chase, a waxen honey-comb     Dripping with oozy gold which scarce the bee     Had ceased from building, a black skin of oil     Meet for the wrestlers, a great boar the fierce and white-tusked spoil     Stolen from Artemis that jealous maid     To please Athena, and the dappled hide     Of a tall stag who in some mountain glade     Had met the shaft; and then the herald cried,     And from the pillared precinct one by one     Went the glad Greeks well pleased that they their simple vows had done.     And the old priest put out the waning fires     Save that one lamp whose restless ruby glowed     For ever in the cell, and the shrill lyres     Came fainter on the wind, as down the road     In joyous dance these country folk did pass,     And with stout hands the warder closed the gates of polished brass.     Long time he lay and hardly dared to breathe,     And heard the cadenced drip of spilt-out wine,     And the rose-petals falling from the wreath     As the night breezes wandered through the shrine,     And seemed to be in some entranced swoon     Till through the open roof above the full and brimming moon     Flooded with sheeny waves the marble floor,     When from his nook up leapt the venturous lad,     And flinging wide the cedar-carven door     Beheld an awful image saffron-clad     And armed for battle! the gaunt Griffin glared     From the huge helm, and the long lance of wreck and ruin flared     Like a red rod of flame, stony and steeled     The Gorgon's head its leaden eyeballs rolled,     And writhed its snaky horrors through the shield,     And gaped aghast with bloodless lips and cold     In passion impotent, while with blind gaze     The blinking owl between the feet hooted in shrill amaze.     The lonely fisher as he trimmed his lamp     Far out at sea off Sunium, or cast     The net for tunnies, heard a brazen tramp     Of horses smite the waves, and a wild blast     Divide the folded curtains of the night,     And knelt upon the little poop, and prayed in holy fright.     And guilty lovers in their venery     Forgat a little while their stolen sweets,     Deeming they heard dread Dian's bitter cry;     And the grim watchmen on their lofty seats     Ran to their shields in haste precipitate,     Or strained black-bearded throats across the dusky parapet.     For round the temple rolled the clang of arms,     And the twelve Gods leapt up in marble fear,     And the air quaked with dissonant alarums     Till huge Poseidon shook his mighty spear,     And on the frieze the prancing horses neighed,     And the low tread of hurrying feet rang from the cavalcade.     Ready for death with parted lips he stood,     And well content at such a price to see     That calm wide brow, that terrible maidenhood,     The marvel of that pitiless chastity,     Ah! well content indeed, for never wight     Since Troy's young shepherd prince had seen so wonderful a sight.     Ready for death he stood, but lo! the air     Grew silent, and the horses ceased to neigh,     And off his brow he tossed the clustering hair,     And from his limbs he throw the cloak away;     For whom would not such love make desperate?     And nigher came, and touched her throat, and with hands violate     Undid the cuirass, and the crocus gown,     And bared the breasts of polished ivory,     Till from the waist the peplos falling down     Left visible the secret mystery     Which to no lover will Athena show,     The grand cool flanks, the crescent thighs, the bossy hills of snow.     Those who have never known a lover's sin     Let them not read my ditty, it will be     To their dull ears so musicless and thin     That they will have no joy of it, but ye     To whose wan cheeks now creeps the lingering smile,     Ye who have learned who Eros is, O listen yet awhile.     A little space he let his greedy eyes     Rest on the burnished image, till mere sight     Half swooned for surfeit of such luxuries,     And then his lips in hungering delight     Fed on her lips, and round the towered neck     He flung his arms, nor cared at all his passion's will to check.     Never I ween did lover hold such tryst,     For all night long he murmured honeyed word,     And saw her sweet unravished limbs, and kissed     Her pale and argent body undisturbed,     And paddled with the polished throat, and pressed     His hot and beating heart upon her chill and icy breast.     It was as if Numidian javelins     Pierced through and through his wild and whirling brain,     And his nerves thrilled like throbbing violins     In exquisite pulsation, and the pain     Was such sweet anguish that he never drew     His lips from hers till overhead the lark of warning flew.     They who have never seen the daylight peer     Into a darkened room, and drawn the curtain,     And with dull eyes and wearied from some dear     And worshipped body risen, they for certain     Will never know of what I try to sing,     How long the last kiss was, how fond and late his lingering.     The moon was girdled with a crystal rim,     The sign which shipmen say is ominous     Of wrath in heaven, the wan stars were dim,     And the low lightening east was tremulous     With the faint fluttering wings of flying dawn,     Ere from the silent sombre shrine his lover had withdrawn.     Down the steep rock with hurried feet and fast     Clomb the brave lad, and reached the cave of Pan,     And heard the goat-foot snoring as he passed,     And leapt upon a grassy knoll and ran     Like a young fawn unto an olive wood     Which in a shady valley by the well-built city stood;     And sought a little stream, which well he knew,     For oftentimes with boyish careless shout     The green and crested grebe he would pursue,     Or snare in woven net the silver trout,     And down amid the startled reeds he lay     Panting in breathless sweet affright, and waited for the day.     On the green bank he lay, and let one hand     Dip in the cool dark eddies listlessly,     And soon the breath of morning came and fanned     His hot flushed cheeks, or lifted wantonly     The tangled curls from off his forehead, while     He on the running water gazed with strange and secret smile.     And soon the shepherd in rough woollen cloak     With his long crook undid the wattled cotes,     And from the stack a thin blue wreath of smoke     Curled through the air across the ripening oats,     And on the hill the yellow house-dog bayed     As through the crisp and rustling fern the heavy cattle strayed.     And when the light-foot mower went afield     Across the meadows laced with threaded dew,     And the sheep bleated on the misty weald,     And from its nest the waking corncrake flew,     Some woodmen saw him lying by the stream     And marvelled much that any lad so beautiful could seem,     Nor deemed him born of mortals, and one said,     'It is young Hylas, that false runaway     Who with a Naiad now would make his bed     Forgetting Herakles,' but others, 'Nay,     It is Narcissus, his own paramour,     Those are the fond and crimson lips no woman can allure.'     And when they nearer came a third one cried,     'It is young Dionysos who has hid     His spear and fawnskin by the river side     Weary of hunting with the Bassarid,     And wise indeed were we away to fly:     They live not long who on the gods immortal come to spy.'     So turned they back, and feared to look behind,     And told the timid swain how they had seen     Amid the reeds some woodland god reclined,     And no man dared to cross the open green,     And on that day no olive-tree was slain,     Nor rushes cut, but all deserted was the fair domain,     Save when the neat-herd's lad, his empty pail     Well slung upon his back, with leap and bound     Raced on the other side, and stopped to hail,     Hoping that he some comrade new had found,     And gat no answer, and then half afraid     Passed on his simple way, or down the still and silent glade     A little girl ran laughing from the farm,     Not thinking of love's secret mysteries,     And when she saw the white and gleaming arm     And all his manlihood, with longing eyes     Whose passion mocked her sweet virginity     Watched him awhile, and then stole back sadly and wearily.     Far off he heard the city's hum and noise,     And now and then the shriller laughter where     The passionate purity of brown-limbed boys     Wrestled or raced in the clear healthful air,     And now and then a little tinkling bell     As the shorn wether led the sheep down to the mossy well.     Through the grey willows danced the fretful gnat,     The grasshopper chirped idly from the tree,     In sleek and oily coat the water-rat     Breasting the little ripples manfully     Made for the wild-duck's nest, from bough to bough     Hopped the shy finch, and the huge tortoise crept across the slough.     On the faint wind floated the silky seeds     As the bright scythe swept through the waving grass,     The ouzel-cock splashed circles in the reeds     And flecked with silver whorls the forest's glass,     Which scarce had caught again its imagery     Ere from its bed the dusky tench leapt at the dragon-fly.     But little care had he for any thing     Though up and down the beech the squirrel played,     And from the copse the linnet 'gan to sing     To its brown mate its sweetest serenade;     Ah! little care indeed, for he had seen     The breasts of Pallas and the naked wonder of the Queen.     But when the herdsman called his straggling goats     With whistling pipe across the rocky road,     And the shard-beetle with its trumpet-notes     Boomed through the darkening woods, and seemed to bode     Of coming storm, and the belated crane     Passed homeward like a shadow, and the dull big drops of rain     Fell on the pattering fig-leaves, up he rose,     And from the gloomy forest went his way     Past sombre homestead and wet orchard-close,     And came at last unto a little quay,     And called his mates aboard, and took his seat     On the high poop, and pushed from land, and loosed the dripping sheet,     And steered across the bay, and when nine suns     Passed down the long and laddered way of gold,     And nine pale moons had breathed their orisons     To the chaste stars their confessors, or told     Their dearest secret to the downy moth     That will not fly at noonday, through the foam and surging froth     Came a great owl with yellow sulphurous eyes     And lit upon the ship, whose timbers creaked     As though the lading of three argosies     Were in the hold, and flapped its wings and shrieked,     And darkness straightway stole across the deep,     Sheathed was Orion's sword, dread Mars himself fled down the steep,     And the moon hid behind a tawny mask     Of drifting cloud, and from the ocean's marge     Rose the red plume, the huge and horned casque,     The seven-cubit spear, the brazen targe!     And clad in bright and burnished panoply     Athena strode across the stretch of sick and shivering sea!     To the dull sailors' sight her loosened looks     Seemed like the jagged storm-rack, and her feet     Only the spume that floats on hidden rocks,     And, marking how the rising waters beat     Against the rolling ship, the pilot cried     To the young helmsman at the stern to luff to windward side     But he, the overbold adulterer,     A dear profaner of great mysteries,     An ardent amorous idolater,     When he beheld those grand relentless eyes     Laughed loud for joy, and crying out 'I come'     Leapt from the lofty poop into the chill and churning foam.     Then fell from the high heaven one bright star,     One dancer left the circling galaxy,     And back to Athens on her clattering car     In all the pride of venged divinity     Pale Pallas swept with shrill and steely clank,     And a few gurgling bubbles rose where her boy lover sank.     And the mast shuddered as the gaunt owl flew     With mocking hoots after the wrathful Queen,     And the old pilot bade the trembling crew     Hoist the big sail, and told how he had seen     Close to the stern a dim and giant form,     And like a dipping swallow the stout ship dashed through the storm.     And no man dared to speak of Charmides     Deeming that he some evil thing had wrought,     And when they reached the strait Symplegades     They beached their galley on the shore, and sought     The toll-gate of the city hastily,     And in the market showed their brown and pictured pottery.     II.     But some good Triton-god had ruth, and bare     The boy's drowned body back to Grecian land,     And mermaids combed his dank and dripping hair     And smoothed his brow, and loosed his clenching hand;     Some brought sweet spices from far Araby,     And others bade the halcyon sing her softest lullaby.     And when he neared his old Athenian home,     A mighty billow rose up suddenly     Upon whose oily back the clotted foam     Lay diapered in some strange fantasy,     And clasping him unto its glassy breast     Swept landward, like a white-maned steed upon a venturous quest!     Now where Colonos leans unto the sea     There lies a long and level stretch of lawn;     The rabbit knows it, and the mountain bee     For it deserts Hymettus, and the Faun     Is not afraid, for never through the day     Comes a cry ruder than the shout of shepherd lads at play.     But often from the thorny labyrinth     And tangled branches of the circling wood     The stealthy hunter sees young Hyacinth     Hurling the polished disk, and draws his hood     Over his guilty gaze, and creeps away,     Nor dares to wind his horn, or else at the first break of day     The Dryads come and throw the leathern ball     Along the reedy shore, and circumvent     Some goat-eared Pan to be their seneschal     For fear of bold Poseidon's ravishment,     And loose their girdles, with shy timorous eyes,     Lest from the surf his azure arms and purple beard should rise.     On this side and on that a rocky cave,     Hung with the yellow-belled laburnum, stands     Smooth is the beach, save where some ebbing wave     Leaves its faint outline etched upon the sands,     As though it feared to be too soon forgot     By the green rush, its playfellow, and yet, it is a spot     So small, that the inconstant butterfly     Could steal the hoarded money from each flower     Ere it was noon, and still not satisfy     Its over-greedy love, within an hour     A sailor boy, were he but rude enow     To land and pluck a garland for his galley's painted prow,     Would almost leave the little meadow bare,     For it knows nothing of great pageantry,     Only a few narcissi here and there     Stand separate in sweet austerity,     Dotting the unmown grass with silver stars,     And here and there a daffodil waves tiny scimitars.     Hither the billow brought him, and was glad     Of such dear servitude, and where the land     Was virgin of all waters laid the lad     Upon the golden margent of the strand,     And like a lingering lover oft returned     To kiss those pallid limbs which once with intense fire burned,     Ere the wet seas had quenched that holocaust,     That self-fed flame, that passionate lustihead,     Ere grisly death with chill and nipping frost     Had withered up those lilies white and red     Which, while the boy would through the forest range,     Answered each other in a sweet antiphonal counter-change.     And when at dawn the wood-nymphs, hand-in-hand,     Threaded the bosky dell, their satyr spied     The boy's pale body stretched upon the sand,     And feared Poseidon's treachery, and cried,     And like bright sunbeams flitting through a glade     Each startled Dryad sought some safe and leafy ambuscade.     Save one white girl, who deemed it would not be     So dread a thing to feel a sea-god's arms     Crushing her breasts in amorous tyranny,     And longed to listen to those subtle charms     Insidious lovers weave when they would win     Some fenced fortress, and stole back again, nor thought it sin     To yield her treasure unto one so fair,     And lay beside him, thirsty with love's drouth,     Called him soft names, played with his tangled hair,     And with hot lips made havoc of his mouth     Afraid he might not wake, and then afraid     Lest he might wake too soon, fled back, and then, fond renegade,     Returned to fresh assault, and all day long     Sat at his side, and laughed at her new toy,     And held his hand, and sang her sweetest song,     Then frowned to see how froward was the boy     Who would not with her maidenhood entwine,     Nor knew that three days since his eyes had looked on Proserpine;     Nor knew what sacrilege his lips had done,     But said, 'He will awake, I know him well,     He will awake at evening when the sun     Hangs his red shield on Corinth's citadel;     This sleep is but a cruel treachery     To make me love him more, and in some cavern of the sea     Deeper than ever falls the fisher's line     Already a huge Triton blows his horn,     And weaves a garland from the crystalline     And drifting ocean-tendrils to adorn     The emerald pillars of our bridal bed,     For sphered in foaming silver, and with coral crowned head,     We two will sit upon a throne of pearl,     And a blue wave will be our canopy,     And at our feet the water-snakes will curl     In all their amethystine panoply     Of diamonded mail, and we will mark     The mullets swimming by the mast of some storm-foundered bark,     Vermilion-finned with eyes of bossy gold     Like flakes of crimson light, and the great deep     His glassy-portaled chamber will unfold,     And we will see the painted dolphins sleep     Cradled by murmuring halcyons on the rocks     Where Proteus in quaint suit of green pastures his monstrous flocks.     And tremulous opal-hued anemones     Will wave their purple fringes where we tread     Upon the mirrored floor, and argosies     Of fishes flecked with tawny scales will thread     The drifting cordage of the shattered wreck,     And honey-coloured amber beads our twining limbs will deck.'     But when that baffled Lord of War the Sun     With gaudy pennon flying passed away     Into his brazen House, and one by one     The little yellow stars began to stray     Across the field of heaven, ah! then indeed     She feared his lips upon her lips would never care to feed,     And cried, 'Awake, already the pale moon     Washes the trees with silver, and the wave     Creeps grey and chilly up this sandy dune,     The croaking frogs are out, and from the cave     The nightjar shrieks, the fluttering bats repass,     And the brown stoat with hollow flanks creeps through the dusky grass.     Nay, though thou art a god, be not so coy,     For in yon stream there is a little reed     That often whispers how a lovely boy     Lay with her once upon a grassy mead,     Who when his cruel pleasure he had done     Spread wings of rustling gold and soared aloft into the sun.     Be not so coy, the laurel trembles still     With great Apollo's kisses, and the fir     Whose clustering sisters fringe the seaward hill     Hath many a tale of that bold ravisher     Whom men call Boreas, and I have seen     The mocking eyes of Hermes through the poplar's silvery sheen.     Even the jealous Naiads call me fair,     And every morn a young and ruddy swain     Woos me with apples and with locks of hair,     And seeks to soothe my virginal disdain     By all the gifts the gentle wood-nymphs love;     But yesterday he brought to me an iris-plumaged dove     With little crimson feet, which with its store     Of seven spotted eggs the cruel lad     Had stolen from the lofty sycamore     At daybreak, when her amorous comrade had     Flown off in search of berried juniper     Which most they love; the fretful wasp, that earliest vintager     Of the blue grapes, hath not persistency     So constant as this simple shepherd-boy     For my poor lips, his joyous purity     And laughing sunny eyes might well decoy     A Dryad from her oath to Artemis;     For very beautiful is he, his mouth was made to kiss;     His argent forehead, like a rising moon     Over the dusky hills of meeting brows,     Is crescent shaped, the hot and Tyrian noon     Leads from the myrtle-grove no goodlier spouse     For Cytheraea, the first silky down     Fringes his blushing cheeks, and his young limbs are strong and brown;     And he is rich, and fat and fleecy herds     Of bleating sheep upon his meadows lie,     And many an earthen bowl of yellow curds     Is in his homestead for the thievish fly     To swim and drown in, the pink clover mead     Keeps its sweet store for him, and he can pipe on oaten reed.     And yet I love him not; it was for thee     I kept my love; I knew that thou would'st come     To rid me of this pallid chastity,     Thou fairest flower of the flowerless foam     Of all the wide AEgean, brightest star     Of ocean's azure heavens where the mirrored planets are!     I knew that thou would'st come, for when at first     The dry wood burgeoned, and the sap of spring     Swelled in my green and tender bark or burst     To myriad multitudinous blossoming     Which mocked the midnight with its mimic moons     That did not dread the dawn, and first the thrushes' rapturous tunes     Startled the squirrel from its granary,     And cuckoo flowers fringed the narrow lane,     Through my young leaves a sensuous ecstasy     Crept like new wine, and every mossy vein     Throbbed with the fitful pulse of amorous blood,     And the wild winds of passion shook my slim stem's maidenhood.     The trooping fawns at evening came and laid     Their cool black noses on my lowest boughs,     And on my topmost branch the blackbird made     A little nest of grasses for his spouse,     And now and then a twittering wren would light     On a thin twig which hardly bare the weight of such delight.     I was the Attic shepherd's trysting place,     Beneath my shadow Amaryllis lay,     And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis chase     The timorous girl, till tired out with play     She felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair,     And turned, and looked, and fled no more from such delightful snare.     Then come away unto my ambuscade     Where clustering woodbine weaves a canopy     For amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shade     Of Paphian myrtles seems to sanctify     The dearest rites of love; there in the cool     And green recesses of its farthest depth there is pool,     The ouzel's haunt, the wild bee's pasturage,     For round its rim great creamy lilies float     Through their flat leaves in verdant anchorage,     Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boat     Steered by a dragon-fly, be not afraid     To leave this wan and wave-kissed shore, surely the place was made     For lovers such as we; the Cyprian Queen,     One arm around her boyish paramour,     Strays often there at eve, and I have seen     The moon strip off her misty vestiture     For young Endymion's eyes; be not afraid,     The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret glade.     Nay if thou will'st, back to the beating brine,     Back to the boisterous billow let us go,     And walk all day beneath the hyaline     Huge vault of Neptune's watery portico,     And watch the purple monsters of the deep     Sport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen Xiphias leap.     For if my mistress find me lying here     She will not ruth or gentle pity show,     But lay her boar-spear down, and with austere     Relentless fingers string the cornel bow,     And draw the feathered notch against her breast,     And loose the arched cord; aye, even now upon the quest     I hear her hurrying feet, awake, awake,     Thou laggard in love's battle! once at least     Let me drink deep of passion's wine, and slake     My parched being with the nectarous feast     Which even gods affect! O come, Love, come,     Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine azure home.'     Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering trees     Shook, and the leaves divided, and the air     Grew conscious of a god, and the grey seas     Crawled backward, and a long and dismal blare     Blew from some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed,     And like a flame a barbed reed flew whizzing down the glade.     And where the little flowers of her breast     Just brake into their milky blossoming,     This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest,     Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering,     And ploughed a bloody furrow with its dart,     And dug a long red road, and cleft with winged death her heart.     Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry     On the boy's body fell the Dryad maid,     Sobbing for incomplete virginity,     And raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead,     And all the pain of things unsatisfied,     And the bright drops of crimson youth crept down her throbbing side.     Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan,     And very pitiful to see her die     Ere she had yielded up her sweets, or known     The joy of passion, that dread mystery     Which not to know is not to live at all,     And yet to know is to be held in death's most deadly thrall.     But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere,     Who with Adonis all night long had lain     Within some shepherd's hut in Arcady,     On team of silver doves and gilded wain     Was journeying Paphos-ward, high up afar     From mortal ken between the mountains and the morning star,     And when low down she spied the hapless pair,     And heard the Oread's faint despairing cry,     Whose cadence seemed to play upon the air     As though it were a viol, hastily     She bade her pigeons fold each straining plume,     And dropt to earth, and reached the strand, and saw their dolorous doom.     For as a gardener turning back his head     To catch the last notes of the linnet, mows     With careless scythe too near some flower bed,     And cuts the thorny pillar of the rose,     And with the flower's loosened loneliness     Strews the brown mould; or as some shepherd lad in wantonness     Driving his little flock along the mead     Treads down two daffodils, which side by aide     Have lured the lady-bird with yellow brede     And made the gaudy moth forget its pride,     Treads down their brimming golden chalices     Under light feet which were not made for such rude ravages;     Or as a schoolboy tired of his book     Flings himself down upon the reedy grass     And plucks two water-lilies from the brook,     And for a time forgets the hour glass,     Then wearies of their sweets, and goes his way,     And lets the hot sun kill them, even go these lovers lay.     And Venus cried, 'It is dread Artemis     Whose bitter hand hath wrought this cruelty,     Or else that mightier maid whose care it is     To guard her strong and stainless majesty     Upon the hill Athenian, alas!     That they who loved so well unloved into Death's house should pass.'     So with soft hands she laid the boy and girl     In the great golden waggon tenderly     (Her white throat whiter than a moony pearl     Just threaded with a blue vein's tapestry     Had not yet ceased to throb, and still her breast     Swayed like a wind-stirred lily in ambiguous unrest)     And then each pigeon spread its milky van,     The bright car soared into the dawning sky,     And like a cloud the aerial caravan     Passed over the AEgean silently,     Till the faint air was troubled with the song     From the wan mouths that call on bleeding Thammuz all night long.     But when the doves had reached their wonted goal     Where the wide stair of orbed marble dips     Its snows into the sea, her fluttering soul     Just shook the trembling petals of her lips     And passed into the void, and Venus knew     That one fair maid the less would walk amid her retinue,     And bade her servants carve a cedar chest     With all the wonder of this history,     Within whose scented womb their limbs should rest     Where olive-trees make tender the blue sky     On the low hills of Paphos, and the Faun     Pipes in the noonday, and the nightingale sings on till dawn.     Nor failed they to obey her hest, and ere     The morning bee had stung the daffodil     With tiny fretful spear, or from its lair     The waking stag had leapt across the rill     And roused the ouzel, or the lizard crept     Athwart the sunny rock, beneath the grass their bodies slept.     And when day brake, within that silver shrine     Fed by the flames of cressets tremulous,     Queen Venus knelt and prayed to Proserpine     That she whose beauty made Death amorous     Should beg a guerdon from her pallid Lord,     And let Desire pass across dread Charon's icy ford.     III     In melancholy moonless Acheron,     Farm for the goodly earth and joyous day     Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun     Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May     Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,     Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,     There by a dim and dark Lethaean well     Young Charmides was lying; wearily     He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,     And with its little rifled treasury     Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,     And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream,     When as he gazed into the watery glass     And through his brown hair's curly tangles scanned     His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass     Across the mirror, and a little hand     Stole into his, and warm lips timidly     Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a sigh.     Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,     And ever nigher still their faces came,     And nigher ever did their young mouths draw     Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,     And longing arms around her neck he cast,     And felt her throbbing bosom, and his breath came hot and fast,     And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss,     And all her maidenhood was his to slay,     And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss     Their passion waxed and waned, O why essay     To pipe again of love, too venturous reed!     Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead.     Too venturous poesy, O why essay     To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings     O'er daring Icarus and bid thy lay     Sleep hidden in the lyre's silent strings     Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill,     Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho's golden quid!     Enough, enough that he whose life had been     A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,     Could in the loveless land of Hades glean     One scorching harvest from those fields of flame     Where passion walks with naked unshod feet     And is not wounded, ah! enough that once their lips could meet     In that wild throb when all existences     Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy     Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress     Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone     Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne     Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.