Hypsipyle

Queen of the shadows, Maid and Wife,     Twifold in essence, as in life,     The lamp of Death, the star of Birth,     Half cradled and half mourned by Earth,     By Hell half won, half lost! aid me     To sing thy fond Hypsipyle,     Thy bosom's mate who, unafraid,     Renounced for thee what part she had     In sun and wind upon the hill,     In dawn about the mere, in still     Woodlands, in kiss of lapping wave,     In laughter, in love--all this she gave!--     And shared thy dream-life, visited     The sunless country of the dead,     There to abide with thee, their Queen,     In that gray region, shadow-seen     By them that cast no shadows, yet     Themselves are shadows. Nor forget,     Kor, her love made manifest     To thee, familiar of her breast     And partner of her whispering mouth.     Thee too, Our Lady of the South,     Uranian Kypris, I invoke,     Regent of starry space, with stroke     Of splendid wing, in whose white wake     Stream those who, filled with thee, forsake     Their clinging shroudy clots, and rise,     Lover and loved, to thy pure skies,     To thy blue realm! O lady, touch     My lips with rue, for she loved much.     What poet in what cloistered nook,     Indenting in what roll of a book     His rhymes, can voice the tides of love?     Nay, thrilling lark, nay, moaning dove,     The nightingale's full-chargd throat     That cheereth now, and now doth gloat,     And now recordeth bitter-sweet     Longing, too wise to image it:     These be your minstrels, lovers! Choose     From their winged choir your urgent Muse;     Let her your speechless joys relate     Which men with words sophisticate,     Striving by reasons make appear     To head what heart proclaims so clear     To heart; as if by wit to wis     What mouth to mouth tells in a kiss,     Or in their syllogisms dry     Freeze a swift glance's cogency.     Nay, but the heart's so music-fraught,     Music is all in love, words naught.     One heart's a rote, with music stored     Though mute; but two hearts make a chord     Of piercing music. One alone     Is nothing: two make the full tone. I     On Enna's uplands, on a lea     Between the mountains and the sea,     Shadowed anon by wandering cloud,     Or flickering wings of birds a-crowd,     And now all golden in the sun,     See Kor, see her maidens run     Hither and thither through those hours     Of dawn among the wide-eyed flowers,     While gentian, crocus, asphodel     (With rosy star in each white bell),     Anemone, blood-red with rings     Of paler fire, that plant that swings     A crimson cluster in the wind     They pluck, or sit anon to bind     Of these earth-stars a coronet     For their smooth-tressd Queen, who yet     Strays with her darling interlaced,     Hypsipyle the grave, the chaste--     Her whose gray shadow-life with his     Who singeth now for ever is.     She, little slim thing, Kor's mate,     Child-faced, gray-eyed, of sober gait,     Of burning mind and passion pent     To image-making, ever went     Where wonned her Mistress; for those two     By their hearts' grace together grew,     The one to need, the one to give     (As women must if they would live,     Who substance win by waste of self     And only spend to hoard their pelf:     "O heart, take all of mine!" "O heart,     That which thou tak'st of thee is part--     No robbery therefore: mine is thine,     Take then!"): so she and Proserpine     Intercommunion'd each bright day,     And when night fell together lay     Cradled in arms, or cheek to cheek     Whispered the darkness out. Thou meek     And gentle vision! let me tell     Thy beauties o'er I love so well:     Thy sweet low bosom's rise and fall,     Pulsing thy heart's clear madrigal;     Or how the blue beam from thine eyes     Imageth all love's urgencies;     Thy lips' frail fragrance, as of flowers     Remembered in penurious hours     Of winter-exile; of thy brow,     Not written as thy breast of snow     With love's faint charact'ry, for his wing     Leaves not the heart long! Last I sing     Thy thin quick fingers, in whose pleaching     Lieth all healing, all good teaching--     Wherewith, touching my discontent,     I know how thou art eloquent!     Remember'd joy, Hypsipyle!     Now may that serve to comfort me,     While I, O Maiden dedicate,     Seek voice for singing thy gray Fate!     Now, as they went, one heart in two,     Brusht to the knees by flowers, by dew     Anointed, by the wind caressed,     By the light kissed on eyes and breast,     'Twas Kor talked; Hypsipyle     Listened, with eyes far-set, for she     Of speech was frugal, voicing low     And rare her heart's deep underflow--     Content to lie, like fallow sweet     For rain or sun to cherish it,     Or scattered seed substance to find     In her deep-funded, quiet mind.     And thus the Goddess: "Blest art thou,     Hypsipyle, who canst not know     Until the hour strikes what must come     To pass! But I foresee the doom     And stay to meet it. Even here     The place, and now the hour!" Then fear     Took her who spake so fearless, cold     Threaded her thronging veins--behold!     A hand on either shoulder stirs     That slim, sweet body close to hers,     And need fires need till, lip with lip,     They seal and sign their fellowship,     While Kor, godhead all forgot,     Clings whispering, "Child, leave me not     Whenas to darkness and the dead     I go!" And clear the answer sped     From warm mouth murmuring kiss and cheer,     "Never I leave thee, O my dear!"     Thereafter stand they beatingly,     Not speaking; and the hour draws nigh.     And all the land shows passing fair,     Fair the broad sea, the living air,     The misty mountain-sides, the lake     Flecked blue and purple! To forsake     These, and those bright flower-gatherers     Scattered about this land of theirs,     That stoop or run, that kneel to pick,     That cry each other to come quick     And see new treasure, unseen yet!     Remembered joy--ah, how forget!     But mark how all must come to pass     As was foreknowledged. In the grass     Whereas the Goddess and her mate     Stood, one and other, prompt for fate--     Listless the first and heavy-eyed,     Astrain the second--she espied     That strange white flower, unseen before,     With chalice pale, which thin stalk bore     And swung, as hanging by a hair,     So fine it seemed afloat in air,     Unlinkt and wafted for the feast     Of some blest mystic, without priest     Or acolyte to tender it:     Whereto the maid did stoop and fit     Her hand about its silken cup     To close it, that her mouth might sup     The honey-drop within. The bloom     Saw Kor then, and knew her doom     Foretold in it; and stood in trance     Fixd and still. No nigromance     Used she, but read the fate it bore     In seedless womb and petals frore.     Chill blew the wind, waiting stood She,     Waiting her mate, Hypsipyle.     Then in clear sky the thunder tolled     Sudden, and all the mountains rolled     The dreadful summons round, and still     Lay all the lands, only the rill     Made tinkling music. Once more drave     Peal upon peal--and lo! a grave     Yawned in the Earth, and gushing smoke     Belched out, as driven, and hung, and broke     With sullen puff; like tongues the flame     Leapt following. Thence Adoneus came,     Swart-bearded king, with iron crown'd,     In iron mailed, his chariot bound     About with iron, holding back     Amain two steeds of glistering black     And eyeballs white-rimmed fearfully,     And nostrils red, and crests flying free;     Who held them pawing at the verge,     Tossing their spume up, as the surge     Flung high against some seaward bluff.     Nothing he spake, or smooth or gruff,     But drave his errand, gazing down     Upon the Maid, whose blown back gown     Revealed her maiden. Still and proud     Stood she among her nymphs, unbowed     Her comely head, undimmed her eye,     Inseparate her lips and dry,     Facing his challenge of her state,     Neither denying, nor desperate,     Pleading no mercy, seeing none,     Her wild heart masked in face of stone.     But they, her bevy, clustered thick     As huddled sheep, set their eyes quick,     And held each other, hand or waist,     Paling or flushing as fear raced     Thronging their veins--they knew not, they,     The gathered fates that broke this day,     And all the land seemed passing fair     To one who knew, and waited there.     "Goddess and Maid," then said the King,     "Long have I sought this day should bring     An end of torment. Know me thou     God postulant, with whom below     A world awaits her queen, while here     I seek and find one without peer;     Nor deem her heedless nor unschooled     In what in Heaven is writ and ruled.     Decreed of old my bride-right was,     Decreed thy Mother's pain and loss,     Decreed thy loathing, and decreed     That which thou shunnest to be thy need;     For thou shalt love me, Lady, yet,     Though little liking now, and fret     Of jealous care shall grave thy heart     And draw thee back when time's to part--     If fond Demeter have her will     Against thine own."         The Maid stood still     And guarded watched, and her proud eyes'     Scrutiny bade his own advise     Whether indeed their solemn stare     Saw Destiny and read it there     Beyond her suitor, or within     Her own heart heard the message ring.     Awhile she gazed: her stern aspect,     Young and yet fraught with Godhead, checkt     Both Him who claimed, and her who'd cling,     And them who wondered. "O great King,"     She said, and mournful was her crying     As when night-winds set pine-trees sighing,     "King of the folk beyond the tide     Of sleep, behold thy chosen bride     Not shunning thee, nor seeking. Take     That which Gods neither mar nor make,     But only They, the Three, who spin     The threads which hem and mesh us in,     Both Gods and men, till she who peers     The longest cuts them with her shears.     Take, take, Adoneus, and take her,     My fosterling."         Then He, "O star     Of Earth, O Beacon of my days,     Light of my nights, whose beamy rays     Shall pierce the foggy cerement     Wherein my dead grope and lament     Beyond all loss the loss of light,     Come! and be pleasant in my sight     This thy beloved. Perchance she too     Shall find a suitor come to woo;     For love men leave not with their bones--     That is the soul's, and half atones     And half makes bitterer their loss,     Remembering what their fortune was."     Trembling Hypsipyle uplift     Her eyes towards the hills, where swift     The shadows flew, but no more fleet     Than often she with flying feet     And flying raiment, she with these     Her mates, whom now estranged she sees--     As if the shadow-world had spread     About her now, and she was dead--     Her mates no more! cut off by fear     From these two fearless ones. A tear     Welled up and hovered, hung a gem     Upon her eyelid's dusky hem,     As raindrops linkt and strung arow     Broider with stars the winter bough.     This was her requiem and farewell     To them, thus rang she her own knell;     Nor more gave she, nor more asked they,     But took and went the fairy way.     For thus with unshed tears made blind     Went she: thus go the fairy kind     Whither fate driveth; not as we     Who fight with it, and deem us free     Therefore, and after pine, or strain     Against our prison bars in vain.     For to them Fate is Lord of Life     And Death, and idle is a strife     With such a master. They not know     Life past, life coming, but life now;     Nor back look they to long, nor forth     To hope, but sup the minute's worth     With draught so quick and keen that each     Moment gives more than we could reach     In all our term of three-score years,     Whereof full score we give to fears     Of losing them, and other score     Dreaming how fill the twenty more.     Now is the hour, Bride of the Night!     The chariot turns, the great steeds fight     The rocky entry; flies the dust     Behind the wheels at each fierce thrust     Of giant shoulder, at each lunge     Of giant haunch. Down, down they plunge     Into the dark, with rioting mane,     And the earth's door shuts-to again.     Now fly, ye Oreads, strain your arms,     Let eyes and hair voice your alarms--     Hair blown back, mouths astretch for fear,     Strained eyeballs--cry that Mother dear     Her daughter's rape; fly like the gale     That down the valleys drives the hail     In scurrying sheets, and lays the corn     Flat, which when man of woman born     Seeth, he bows him to the grass,     Whispering in hush, The Oreads pass.     (In shock he knows ye, and in mirth,     Since he is kindred of that earth     Which bore ye in her secret stress,     Images of her loveliness,     To her dear paramour the Wind.)     Follow me now that car behind. II     O ye that know the fairy throng,     And heed their secret under-song;     In flower or leaf's still ecstasy     Of birth and bud their passion see,     In wind or calm, in driving rain     Or frozen snow discern them strain     To utter and to be; who lie     At dawn in dewy brakes to spy     The rapture of their flying feet--     Follow me now those coursers fleet,     Sucked in their wake, down ruining     Through channelled night, where only sing     The shrill gusts streaming through the hair     Of them who sway and bend them there,     And peer in vain with shielded eyes     To rend the dark. Clinging it lies,     Thick as wet gossamer that shrouds     October brushwoods, or low clouds     That from the mountain tops roll down     Into the lowland vales, to drown     Men's voices and to choke their breath     And make a silence like to death.     But this was hot and dry; it came     And smote them, like the gush of flame     Fanned in a smithy, that outpours     And floods with fire the open doors.     Downward their course was, swift as flight     Of meteor flaring through the night,     Steady and dreadful, with no sound     Of wheels or hoofs upon the ground,     Nor jolt, nor jar; for once past through     Earth's portals, steeds and chariot flew     On wings invisible and strong     And even-oaring, such as throng     The nights when birds of passage sweep     O'er cities and the folk asleep:     Such was their awful flight. Afar     Showed Hades glimmering like a star     Seen red through fog: and as they sped     To that, the frontiers of the dead     Revealed their sullen leagues and bare,     And sad forms flitting here and there,     Or clustered, waiting who might come     Their empty ways with news of home.     Yet all one course at length must hold,     Or late or soon, and all be tolled     By Charon in his dark-prowed boat.     Thither was swept the chariot     And crossed dry-wheeled the coiling flood     Of Styx, and o'er the willow wood     And slim gray poplars which do hem     The further shore, Hell's diadem--     So by the tower foursquare and great     Where King Adoneus keeps his state     And rules his bodyless thralls they stand.     Dark ridge and hollow showed the land     Fold over fold, like waves of soot     Fixt in an anguish of pursuit     For evermore, so far as eye     Could range; and all was hot and dry     As furnace is which all about     Etna scorcheth in days of drouth,     And showeth dun and sinister     That fair isle linked to main so fair.     Nor tree nor herbage grew, nor sang     Water among the rocks: hard rang     The heel on metal, or on crust     Grew tender, or went soft in dust;     Neither for beast nor bird nor snake     Was harbourage; nor could such slake     Their thirst, nor from the bitter heat     Hide, since the sun not furnished it;     But airless, shadowless and dense     The land lay swooning, dead to sense     Beneath that vault of stuprous black,     Motionless hanging, without wrack     Of cloud to break and pass, nor rent     To hint the blue. Like the foul tent     A foul night makes, it sagged; for stars     Showed hopeless faces, with two scars     In each, their eyes' immortal woe,     Ever to seek and never know:     In all that still immensity     These only moved--these and the sea,     Which dun and sullen heaved, with surge     And swell unseen, save at the verge     Where fainted off the black to gray     And showed such light as on a day     Of sun's eclipse men tremble at.     Here the dead people moved or sat,     Casting no shadow, hailing none     Boldly; but in fierce undertone     They plied each other, or on-sped     Their way with signal of the head     For answer, or arms desperate     Flung up, or shrug disconsolate.     And this the quest of every one:     "What hope have ye?" And answer, "None."     Never passed shadow shadow but     That answer got to question put.     In that they lived, in that, alas!     Lovely and hapless, Thou must pass     Thy days, with this for added lot--     Aching, to nurse things unforgot.     Remember'd joy, Hypsipyle!     The Oread choir, the Oread glee:     The nimble air of quickening hills,     The sweet dawn light that floods and fills     The hollowed valleys; the dawn wind     That bids the world wake, and on blind     Eyelids of sleeping mortals lays     Cool palms that urge them see and praise     The Day-God coming with the sun     To hearten toil! He warned you run     And hide your beauties deep in brake     Of fern or briar, or reed of lake,     Or in wet crevice of the rock,     There to abide until the clock     You reckon by, with shadowy hands,     Lay benediction on the lands     And landsmen, and the eve-jar's croak     Summon ye, lightfoot fairy folk,     To your activity full tide     Over the empty earth and wide.     Here be your food, fair nymph, and coy     Of mortal ken--remember'd joy!     Remember'd joy! Ah, stormy nights,     Ah, the mad revel when wind fights     With wind, and slantwise comes the rain     And shatters at the window-pane,     To wake the hind, who little knows     Whose fingers drum those passionate blows,     Nor what swift indwellers of air     Ye be who hide in forms so fair     Your wayward motions, cruel to us,     While lovely, and dispiteous!     Ah, nights of flying scud and rout     When scared the slim young moon rides out     In her lagoon of open sky,     Or older, marks your revelry     As calm and large she oars above     Your drifting lives of ruth or love.     Boon were those nights of dusted gold     And glint of fireflies! Boon the cold     And witching frost! All's one, all's one     To thee, whose nights and days go on     Now in one span of changeless dusk     On one earth, crackling like the husk     Of the dropt mast in winter wood:     Remember'd joy--'tis all thy food,     Hypsipyle, to whose fond sprite     I vow my praise while I have light.     Dumbly she wandered there, as pale     With lack of light, with form as frail     As those poor hollow congeners     Whose searching eyes encountered hers,     Petitioning as mute as she     Some grain of hope, where none might be,     Daring not yet to voice their moan     To her whose case was not their own;     For where they go like breath in a shell     That wails, my love goes quick in Hell.     Alas, for her, the sweet and slim!     Slowly she pines; her eyes grow dim     With seeking; her smooth, sudden breasts     Hang languidly; those little nests     For kisses which her dimples were,     In cheeks graved hollow now by care     Vanish, and sharply thrusts her chin,     And sharp her bones of arm and shin.     Reproach she looks, about, above,     Denied her light, denied her love,     Denied for what she sacrificed,     Doomed to be fruitless agonist.     (O God, and I must see her fade,     Must see and anguish--in my shade!)     Nor help nor comfort gat she now     From her whose need called forth her vow;     For close in arms Queen Kor dwelt     In that great tower Adoneus built     To cherish her; deep in his bed,     Loved as the Gods love whom they wed;     Turned from pale maiden to pale wife,     Pale now with love's insatiate strife     First to appease, and then renew     The wild desire to mingle two     Natures, to long, to seek, to shun,     To have, to give, to make two one     That must be two if they would each     Learn all the lore that love can teach.     So strove the mistress, while the maid     Went alien among the dead,     Unspoken, speaking none, but watcht     By them who knew themselves outmatcht     By her, translated whole, nor guessed     What miseries gnawed within that breast,     Which could be toucht, which could give meat     To babe; which was not eye-deceit     As theirs, poor phantoms. So went she     Grudged but unscathed beside the sea,     Or sat alone by that sad strand     Nursing her worn cheek in her hand;     And did not mark, as day on day     Lengthened the arch of changeless gray,     How she was shadowed, how to her     Stretcht arms another prisoner;     Nor knew herself desirable     By any thankless guest of Hell--     Withal each phantom seemed no less     Whole-natured to her heedlessness.     Midway her round of solitude     She used to haunt a dead sea-wood     Where among boulders lifeless trees     Stuck rigid fingers to the breeze--     That stream of faint hot air that flits     Aimless at noon. 'Tis there she sits     Hour after hour, and as a dove     Croons when her breast is ripe for love,     So sings this exile, quiet, sad chants     Of love, yet knows not what she wants;     And singing there in undertone,     Is one day answered by the moan     Of hidden mourner; but no fear     Hath she for sound so true, though near;     Nay, but sings out her elegy,     Which, like an echo, answers he.     Again she sings; he suits her mood,     Nor breaks upon her solitude:     So she, choragus, calls the tune,     And as she leads he follows soon.     As bird with bird vies in the brake,     She sings no note he will not take--     As when she pleads, "Ah, my lost love,     The night is dark thou art not of,"     Quick cometh answering the phrase,     "O love, let all our nights be days!"     This, rapt, with beating heart, she heeds     And follows, "Sweet love, my heart bleeds!     Come, stay the wound thyself didst give";     Then he, "I come to bid thee live."     And so they carol, and her heart     Swells to believe his counterpart,     And stroph striketh clear, which he     Caps with his brave antistrophe;     And as a maiden waxes bold,     And opens what should not be told     When all her auditory she sees     Within her mirror, so to trees     And rocks, and sullen sounding main     She empties all her passioned pain;     And "love, love, love," her burden is,     And "I am starving for thee," his.     Moved, melted, all on fire she stands,     Holding abroad her quivering hands,     Raises her sweet eyes faint with tears     And dares to seek him whom she hears;     And from her parted lips a sigh     Stealeth, as knowing he is nigh     And her fate on her--then she'd shun     That which she seeks; but the thing's done.     Hollow-voiced, dim, spake her a shade,     "O thou that comest, nymph or maid--     If nymph, then maiden, since for aye     Virgin is immortality,     Nor love can change what Death cannot--     Look on me by love new-begot;     Look on me, child new-born, nor start     To see my form who knowest my heart;     For it is thine. O Mother and Wife,     Take then my love--thou gavest it life!"     So spake one close: to whom she lent     The wonder of her eyes' content--     That lucent gray, as if moonlight     Shone through a sapphire in the night--     And saw him faintly imaged, rare     As wisp of cloud on hillside bare,     A filamental form, a wraith     Shaped like that man who in the faith     Of one puts all his hope: who stood     Trembling in her near neighbourhood,     A thing of haunted eyes, of slim     And youthful seeming; yet not dim,     Yet not unmanly in his fashion     Of speech, nor impotent of passion--     The which his tones gave earnest of     And his aspct of hopeless love;     Who, drawing nearer, came to stand     So close beside her that one hand     Lit on her shoulder--yet no touch     She felt: "O maiden overmuch,"     He grieved, "O body far too sweet     For such as I, frail counterfeit     Of man, who yet was once a man,     Cut off before the midmost span     Of mortal life was but half run,     Or ere to love he had found one     Like thee--yet happy in that fate,     That waiting, he is fortunate:     For better far in Hell to fare     With thee than commerce otherwhere,     Sharing the snug and fat outlook     Of bed and board and ingle-nook     With earth-bound woman, earth-born child.     Nay, but high love is free and wild     And centreth not in mortal things;     But to the soul giveth he wings,     And with the soul strikes partnership,     So may two let corruption slip     And breasting level, with far eyes     Lifted, seek haven in the skies,     Untrammel'd by the earthly mesh.     O thou," said he, "of fairy flesh,     Immortal prisoner, take of me     Love! 'tis my heritage in fee;     For I am very part thereof,     And share the godhead."         So his love     Pled he with tones in love well-skilled     Which on her bosom beat and thrilled,     And pierced. No word nor look she had     To voice her heart, or sad or glad.     Rapt stood she, wooed by eager word     And by her need, whose cry she heard     Above his crying; but she guessed     She was desired, beset, possessed     Already, handfasted to sight,     And yielding so, her heart she plight.     Thus was her mating: of the eyes     And ears, and her love half surmise,     Detected by her burning face     Which saw, not felt, his fierce embrace.     For on her own she knew no hand     When caging it he seemed to stand,     And round her waist felt not the warm     Sheltered peace of the belting arm     She saw him clasp withal. When rained     His words upon her, or eyes strained     As though her inmost shrine to pierce     Where hid her heart of hearts, her ears     Conceived, although her body sweet     Might never feel a young life beat     And leap within it. Ah, what cry     That mistress e'er heard poet sigh     Could voice thy beauty? Or what chant     Of music be thy ministrant?     Since thou art Music, poesy     Must both thy spouse and increase be!     In the hot dust, where lizards crouch     And pant, he made her bridal couch;     Thither down drew her to his side     And, phantom, taught her to be bride     With words so ardent, looks so hot     She needs must feel what she had not,     Guess herself in beleaguered bed     And throb response. Thus she was wed.     As she whom Zeus loved in a cloud,     So lay she in her lover's shroud,     And o'er her members crept the chill     We know when mist creeps up a hill     Out of the vale at eve. As grows     The ivy, rooting as it goes,     In such a quick close envelope     She lay aswoon, nor guessed the scope     Nor tether of his hot intent,     Nor what to that inert she lent,     Save when at last with half-turned head     And glimmering eyes, encompassd     She saw herself, a bride possest     By ghostly bridegroom, held and prest     To unfelt bosom, saw his mouth     Against her own, which to his drouth     Gave no allay that she could sense,     Nor took of her sweet recompense.     So moved by pity, stirred by rue,     Out of their onslaught young love grew.     Love that with delicate tongues of fire     Can kindle hearts inflamed desire     In her for him who needed it;     And so she claimed and by eyes' wit     Had what she would: and now made war,     Being, as all sweet women are,     Prudes till Love calls them, and then fierce     In love's high calling. Thus with her ears     She fed on love, and to her eyes     Lent deeds of passionate emprise--     Till at the last, the shadowy strife     Ended, she owned herself all wife.     High mating of the mind! O love,     Since this must be, on this she throve!     Remember'd joy, Hypsipyle,     Since this must be, O love, let be! 1911.