Argument.
About mount Tenarus, a wood spreads wide And toward the heart of it holm oak and yew Make it right hard for light to struggle through,
This darkest place, the crisp leaves of the beach Make a sweet ceiling overhead; the oak And many-keyed ash good for shaft and yoke Grow sparser next above the thin hard grass;
Its mighty mass of dread: in long passed years So was it at the least, as tells my tale; And in those days no quarry might avail
To draw the hunter to the further shore
Should one day come to pass. All men did dread That wood exceeding much, and deemed the dead Walked there at whiles; and that the Gods who least Love mortal men, whose dreadful altar-feast
Yet one there was in such a fearful case
Or know if she would die for ever she, As tells the tale, in all folks’ memory Had been the same to look on: so it was That sometimes would her awful shadow pass
Over the hay-field, and the maidens’ tune Would quaver and die out, and hand from hand Would fall away and youth and damsel stand Trembling and scarcely daring to draw breath,
Yet since strange tales went of her wondrous lore, Sometimes would folk that hard need pressed full sore Cry from the stream’s bank on her dreadful name, They durst not name else; and the hag still came
As wollen cloth, or knife fresh from the fire, Wheat-meal, or kid fit for the slaughtering, Fresh oil or honey, or such like other thing, Would speak in dreadful voice that scarcely seemed
Would tell the import; or teach fearful skill, How to gain love perforce, and how to kill Far-off unseen – in battle to prevail To heal the half-dead and make weak the hail.
That wood, and she who dwelt therein did curse
With none of these our story dealeth now
Amid the wondering men with bitter thought With grief untold to these, which yet our tale Shall tell of somewhat. In a Thracian vale He dwelt erewhile, and Orpheus had to name,
Of which few words folk tell, but know that he Could deal with measured words and melody As no man else, and all the people moved, And in all matters was right well beloved:
And won her, and the days wore by till she Was wedded to him, but or ere the night When all their longing into pure delight Should melt away, as her fair feet did pass
And he beheld them, unbeheld there crept A serpent through the flowers oer which she stepped And stung her unshod foot in deadly wise So that before the July moon might rise
She, the desire of all the world, lay dead. Ye who shall read what after followeth May deem belike how this man first saw death; Who none the less at last arose from pain
Some little hope, if he should yet live on, And so this grew until at last he won A bitter courage from his lone despair,
Was yet alive the very death to move. What lore he gained, or in what what hidden place, But so it was that still he set his face Toward Tenarus, until at last outworn
Upon the border of that stream he stood With strained eyes fixed upon the fearful wood. Black was his raiment, and a withered wreath
With golden string, about his neck there hung: Lovely he was, well-wrought of every limb, But white and wasted was the face of him Beneath his golden hair, a thing to move
If she might dream a little while that fate, Stayed by the hand of love, an hour could wait To let her taste the fear and hope and pain, That still we strive to think not wholly vain.
Mid winter was it, dark the full stream ran
And snarled behind him, e’en while overhead A raven wheeled, glad that the year was dead And dieth not time withal, though still I strive
But, living, unconsumed by misery still, Into a timeless changeless sea of ill, Made but to waste my wretched soul shall float, As from a dark stream’s mouth an unmanned boat
He clenched his hands, and drew a weary breath, And o’er the grass that through the thin dry snow Struggled aloft, he went with footsteps slow Until he came to the stream s shallowest place,
Crashed through the ice and splashed the ripple through And gained the bank, and toward the dark wood drew, Of flowers that once had known the summers breath Was round his head, an ivory harp well strung With golden strings about his neck there hung Lovely the man was most well wrought of limb But white and wasted was the face of him Beneath his golden hair a thing to move A very goddess with sweet ruth & love If she might dream a \little/ while that fate Stayed by the hand of love an hour < might > \could/ wait To let her taste the hope & fear and pain That \men on earth must think not/ we must strive to think not wholly vain) That none in memory of aught alive Had dared to seek, with death and hell to strive.
E’en when the winter day’s sick sunlight failed Beneath the black boughs, and the twilight dim Betwixt the tree-trunks needs must seem to him Gained not from day but from some strange place shed
Nought living in that wood his eyes might see, Scarce might the snow betwixt thick tree & tree Reach the sparse herbage, or the hard brown ground: Though the wind rose without now, no real sound
Yet by the silence nowise was he feared, For, wrapped about in grief and strong intent, Scarcely he saw the way on which he went Or took note of the trees, as one by one
They grew, then met him, then were left behind Thus darkling through the changeless woodways blind
Changing to black and red the treetrunks grey. No cry carne from his lips, nor did his feet Falter one whit, but swiftlier moved to meet The heart of the strange light, until at last
Though what was over head he might not say, Sky or what else; for surely the world’s day Had scarce waned yet, yea and were it night With neither moon or star the sky to light
To mingle with the red blaze that did flare From out the windows of a house of stone, White and unstained as is a wind-bleached bone In a dry land: he looked down toward his feet,
Tough blossoms certainly that glare did light Not the thin grey grass and snow dusty-white Of the cold world without; whereby he knew That some strange land he thus had journeyed to,
Should all be round him, and the changeless change Of seasons, each slaying each, and night and day Waxing and waning thus were passed away So now unto the doorway of that hall
Upon its threshold, wild new hopes there came Across his heart. He entered; a great flame Shot up from floor to ceiling of that place Reddening his raiment and his wild white face
A mighty had he had accounted fair Mid the world’s sunlight with the boughs of trees Brushing its windows in the fitful breeze;
Amidst a city where all folk have died, Dreadful it seemed, and even he did bide Doubtful a little while, with eyes all dazed As through the smokeless swirling flame he gazed;
Pavement and walls and roof, but for the light That reddened it: betwixt the fire and door A laver was there sunken in the floor Whose moveless water mirrored the straight flame;
And by the pillar that rose up anigh A black-fleeced ram lay gasping piteously The red blood running from his breast apace. Now sounded a shrill voice adown the place;
Of the glad world unmeet for me and thee That hast a mind the heavens and earth to move. Tales wherein hope is told of, and sweet love, Where each loves each in sweet and equal wise
Then such a laughter on his ears did fall
How drew him on the worst of all to meet. But as betwixt the pillars tall he passed Lo, nor their whiteness, nor his blackness cast A shadow on the pavement, in despite
But now all fear that his great heart drew round At the first hearing of that dreadful sound Died clean away, as onward he did wend And saw one sitting at the hall’s far end
In white wool raiment: in her hand she had A rock wherefrom she span a coal-black thread; Her face was as the face of one long dead But for her glittering eyes, and white and long
“All hail, Worlds Hope, Worlds Love!” she cried we twain
O good it is we twain are met alone!” Now as he drew close, therewithal it seemed
That in such wise from out his soul did flame That oer his cheeks a ruddy flush there carne Mocked from her corpse-like lips by laughter low As if his thoughts she nowise failed to know.
“Mother, all hail! for though the world be wide, Thus have we met; I who desire, and thou Who hidden thing and life’s end well can show!” “Mother of nought at all,” she cried, “am I;
I brought it not to birth, but in a dream Was it made mine: the thought that once did seem Born from my very heart – who knows, who knows, Whence it was born, amid what fearful throes
Mazed twixt the rising and the end if it. Fool of the world, thou hearkenest not to me, Deeming thy love a part of thee to be, Knowing it mighty, thinking that thou too
– Assay it, 0 thou singer, who didst move The little hearts of men ere thou didst love, And canst not move them more, O hot-hearted fool, Who then as now wert but the helpless tool
Whose sweet sound mocks the vain hearts made to die. – Thou hearkenest not – how then shall I avail Thy vain desire? Speak, tell me of they tale!” Indeed with wandering eyes he turned to her,
But when she made an end of all, he said; “Mother, folk say thou dealest with the dead, Thyself alive – as old as thou mayst be, As wise by lapse of years of misery,
The eyes of those that their last rest have won As thou thyself dost: nor more lonely grow E’en for that sight; because within me now Instead of lore and wisdom is there set
To deal with dreamy bitter-sweet half-rest; To strive for that which wise men call the best Forgetfulness and blotting out of day; Too strong but as a thinnest mask to bear
Nay I need pray thee not, I know thy thought As thou know’st mine; I am not come for nought, Alone of all men, to this fearful place.” Silent awhile upon him did she gaze,
Save with the Gods who kill and make alive And know not why – so even let it be, And as I may will I give help to thee; I, who perchance am even one of these,
– Yet hearken now, thou as thou standest there, So loving and so lovesome and so fair All music on thy lips, and in thine heart – – More than a God in this one thing thou art,
But so it is not; love is but the tool They use to make the morning bright and fair; Even by the silence of thy dull despair The brown breast of the thoughtless nightingale
Through the cold patience of thy grief forgot, A hundred thousand springs wax bright & hot, A hundred thousand summers bear the rose; And with the fruitful rest thine heart did lose
Before the star-crowned winters cold white feet; While thou thyself, a waif cast forth, shalt fare Alone, unloved thou knowest not why or where. Come then today and strive and strive and fail,
Sweeter and fairer to the world than though In triumph thou thy short life passedst through, Glad every day and making others glad.” Methinks he knew not, or for good or bad
Gleamed a strange light, as he beheld her rise And step down toward him; as a king’s eyes gleam When from the hall forth unto battle stream His folk foredoomed behind him, and the shout
But now on his hot hand her hand did fall Ice-cold, and slow she led him down the hall Until they came unto the laver fair, And there she bade him bide, and into the air
Bare store of herbs with her all strange to see, With some whereof her dreadful hair she crowned, And some she strewed about upon the ground, Or cast into the water: then she took
The cumbering raiment back, and therewith strode Unto the fire and cast therein her load, That flesh and fell and bone the fire licked up; Then from her girdle did she take a cup,
“Drink, and fear not; thine heart that so doth ache Shall rest a while; lie down hereby, and sleep Over the trouble of thy soul shall creep Despite thyself: but when thou wak’st, take thou
Of melody; and in the sweetest wise Thou mayest, sing thou of thy miseries: For doubt thou not, that those shall be anear Who all thy tale shall nowise fail to hear
What end soe’er of this thou hast to tell, Belike it is that ne’er shall meet again Thine all devouring feverish longing vain And my despair that the Gods needs must call
He drank, and almost ere her speech was o’er Sank with dim eyes upon the marble floor Then twice he feebly raised his eyes to see If she were gone, and twice sank languidly
To look forth, but now scarcely might he move, For heavy sleep was on him, ’gainst his will And a void space; then dreams of the fair hill That hung in Thrace above his fathers house,
That waited there his corning forth to them With harp and fair song, that the wool robe’s hem Might dance about the maidens dancing feet, And her loosed hair smite with its tangles sweet,
But from the house he deemed there carne a cry ‘Orpheus is dead, and will not corne again’ And therewithal he seemed to strive in vain To add a cry unto the wailing loud
But as he strove all sight passed clean away, And no more had he thought of night or day, Or lapse of time, nay scarce if he did live; But none the less ever his mouth did strive
Until at last the pillars of the hall Midst a dim twilight did he now behold Grow slowly from the dark void; quenched and cold The fire was; great drops fell from on high
Rang through the long place – O Eurydice My love my love! – yet he knew not that he Had ever cried: but as he slowly rose Unto his feet and drew the raiment close
Strove to gain memory, his white lips did part, And as the dead may call unto the dead With listless hands down-dropped, and hopeless head, He cried; “O love, O love Eurydice!”
And died away, nor other sound was there Except the drip into the water near, And his own breathing: so at last he moved And his foot smote against his harp beloved,
Familiar once, but mid the marvels round, In that last refuge of his hope and woe A stranger sound then err he hearkened to. Therewith he gan remember where he was
And of the bidding of the dreadful crone Then with the pain of feeling so alone, None nigh to tell of all his longing sore His heart grew soft, and his vexed eyes ran o’er
Came thronging thick and fast the images Of bygone days; he stooped adown to take His harp up, and he felt the strained strings quake, Trembling himself; then with a doubtful hand
Nor named his hope; until at last the hall Heard his deft fingers on the red gold fall And move in loving wise: though he belike Scarce knew what music therefrom he did strike,
For all these things to him were grown nought worth, Only his love lived, only his longing strove To think the whole world filled with his sweet love. Long ago has he gone, nor left behind
Yet tells the tale his thought in words like these Faint as they be to match his melodies. While agone my words had wings And might tell of noble things,
And the going to and fro Of the wise that the world do know Then the sea was in my song, And the wind blew rough & strong,
And the griding of the spears Reached the hot heart through the ears So a slim youth sang I then Mid the beards of warring men;
And the swords were on their knees As they hearkened words like these. Or before the maids that led The white oxen sleek full fed,
The dead lover of the sun Sweet I sang when day was done. Hearts I gladdened limbs made light When the feet of girls gleamed white
And belike my heart did flame Though my cheek told lies of shame Or in days not long agone, Would I sit as if alone
Each as if alone we were For of fresh love sang I there. All such things could I sing now,
Of all love and hope and hate And unseen slow-creeping fate. But of this how shall I sing? The sick hope whereto I cling,
Moaneth with about mine eyes, This dull cage of miseries? Slow died the sweet wail of his voice along The dusk of the hall; an echo of his song
But there a long while stood he silent now Amid the silence, till a sudden thought An unseen frown unto his white brow brought And once again he smote his harp and sang
O ye, who sit alone And bend above the earth, So great that the world’s gain Is but a hollow dearth, And pain forgot like laughter, And love of fleeting worth, Did ye teach me how to sing Or where else did I gain
I stand alone and longing Nor know if aught doth live Except myself and sorrow Nor know with whom to strive, Nor know if ye have might To hold back or to give, Nor know if ye can love, Or what your hate shall be
Can ye hearken as men hearken, Can I move you as ere while I moved the happy kings, And the wise men did beguile, When the lover unbeloved Must sigh with rest and smile For the sweetness of the song That made not light of woe,
O ye who ne’er were fettered, By the bonds of time and ill, Give give, if ye are worthy Or leave me worthier still: For the measure of my love No gain of love should fill. If I held the hands I love, If I pressed her who is gone,
O be satisfied with this, That no end my longing knows If the years might not be counted, For we twain to sit all close As on earth we sat a little Twixt the lily and the rose, Sat a little and were gone Ere we mingled in the strife
Folk pray to us of earth, To be loved, and sick at heart Must turn their eyes away, And from every hope depart We are lone who cannot give, And grow hard beneath the smart But ye have wealth and might, Ye can hearken & can give,
He ceased and listened, for he deemed a sound
Stood in that place a moment silently, Then passed unto the door, and gazed about And the same glimmering twilight was without As in the hall, and silence as of death,
His feet just scarcely moving gainst his will Seemed a great sound, portentous, mid the still Warm moveless air: till now he ’gan to think: “Yea, perchance death it was that I did drink,
Silent and lonely, yet with memory rife, With all the pain of the old struggle left, With all the love unsatisfied; hope reft Away from us alone – Ah is it so
And thou art lone, O love, as I am lone? Yet if thy love for me is no more gone, Than is my love, sure we shall meet again To weep and smile above the tales of pain
Ah, if a word of mine might give thee peace, Now or we meet, now while thou wanderest Amid the languor of this dull unrest!” And once again his hands ran oer the strings,
His heart swelled into music, and his song Within that echoless land rang sweet and strong. O me, a white house there was Set amid the Thracian grass,
And the Thracian loved and lover, Passing by the garden-close Speaking words that no one knows, Stopped awhile to smile and say
‘The white feet of Eurydice Fair, as thou art fair to me Soft beneath the lilies white –’ ‘Bear her forth to full delight
‘Come then love, for overmuch Them and us the Gods do bless With enduring happiness.’ ‘Yea love, for the grass is green
The faint mallows overworn And the berries of the thorn Know no ruddy threat of death! So they felt each other’s breath
And the weight of hand and arm As they went amid the grass; There her naked feet did pass And her hand touched blossoms fair
In the yellow-throated snake; But their beauty did not wake His dull heart and evil eyes And belike in happy wise
Yet again unto that home. Ah, the gate is open wide, And the wild bees only hide In the long-cupped blossoms there,
Of the flowers he used to have, And no scythe the sward doth shave And the wilding grasses meet High above their faltering feet
And unnailed the peach hangs now No more is the fountain full And the dial’s gold is dull; And the foot worn pink veined stone
Through the empty chambers cold Moans the wind as it did hold Dull winter mid the summer’s heart. Think ye that the twain depart
They who saw the clothes that clad Her fair body that fair night, Yellowing as the jasmine white Yellows as it fades away,
On the pillows of the bed That neer touched her golden head? They who looked so close they saw The bed-gear into creases draw;
Feverish with half-happy drouth. And the threshold, saw they not Where my lips thereon were hot Ere she came, that she might feel
Trembling sweet, and know not why, Fluttering hope so soon to die In the heart of utter bliss As the still night saw our kiss.
Till they knew why they, so blessed Such a sorrow of heart should feel? Through the summer day they steal, Een as folk who dwell alone
Where their shame hath wrought the thing. For their hands forget to cling Each to each, and their sweet eyes Are distraught with mysteries
Till at ending of the eve Folk they meet at last to tell How the death of joy befell. He ceased now, trembling sore, for certainly
Then as it were, a strange laugh musical But mocking, fearful, on his ears did fall. “Yet hearken, O ye hearken, cried he then, Yet hearkening do ye mock the woes of men?
Wilt thou be dumb, now, when this love divine Meeteth the very Gods naked, alone, And unafraid as though the world were gone Adown the void?” Already as he spake
And with his heart a-fire and flaming eyes He let the fountain of his song arise. O if ye laugh, then am I grown O Gods, as here I stand alone
Yet better than ye are, a part Of the world’s woe and the world’s heart. For the world laughed not on the morn When my full woe from night was born
The world laughed not, although I feared When first its waking breath I heard. O me! the morn was bright enow; A little westering wind did blow
Across her white breast no more warm Across my numbed enfolding arm The July morn was bright and clear No more the cock’s cry did I hear,
Now when all things awoke around Mine arms about her heart enwound. Then oer the edge of earth and sky
The sun stole through the room to light Her arm hung down, her fingers white. Higher and higher arose the sun Until unto our breasts it won
Upon my head the sun was hot And scorched me sore, but harmed her not. Then toward the west it gan to wend, No wind was left the rye to bend
No wind until the night grew cold Above the face my hands did hold. Yet all that bright day mocked me nought, Through sunny hours its end was wrought
Its end was wrought mid calm and peace Yet mournfully did it decrease. And if men went upon their ways Een as in other summer days,
Amid the bright day did they seem To toil as in a hapless dream And so at first I thought indeed The world was kind to help my need
But it was kind my love to lack To help my need and wish her back. But ye help not nor know how I Would help the whole worlds misery
Ne’er passing by, if I might sit Above the world, and yearn to it. He ceased and once more passed the murmur by And after it a sound as of a sigh
This seemed at last to have a little part. Then through the dark he cried: “May it be then That if no more I see the sons of men Yet even so I am not quite alone!”
And then a voice cried Orpheus thrice aloud And with that sound such strange wild hopes did crowd About him, that the very death indeed, Whate’er that is, had well nigh been his meed,
A voice that spake: “O Orpheus, not in vain
Or grief move that, which never doth behold The world amid unnumbered griefs grown old Yet still alive more griefs to bear and more? But for as much as thy grief is as sore
Mid earthly wills, some semblance of a wrong Done to the world thou yet from us mayst win To satisfy thy lust; some gift wherein Shall poison seem to lurk: this shalt thou take
Of that which thou hast set thine heart upon Een such a lonely gift thou deemest well won; But ere thou standest lone and strong, look forth And weigh how much thy grain of woe is worth
Then ceased the voice, but that strong hearted one Put back his hair to gaze, and lo, a light Spread slowly through the dusk of that half night Until the flowers showed bright, the last trees stood
And then a low and moaning wind, and then Came and passed by the forms of sad faced men And weary women; nor failed each to turn Such eyes on him as into his heart did burn
Till as the unending flock of rain clouds grey Oer the sea streaming did they grow to be And each one with its unmatched misery Unnamed, unhealed: until the dusk again
And left him voiceless sightless, void of thought. And so again the voice to him was brought;
If even those thou criedst at e’en now Live as live happy men who die? – then pray And gain the grace that the Gods give today!” Thought stirred within him, but his mouth was dumb
Betwixt him and his prayer, until at last From out his gasping lips a cry was cast Forth to the dark: “O love Eurydice! Where then amid this mournful crowd is she:
And yet I knew them not.” Then through the place There came a trembling, and the voice grown great Filled all the air, and shuddering did he wait Till he might know its meaning, and it said:
As well thou knowest: none shall tell thee now Whereas she dwelleth; yet perchance, when thou Goest to the dead land, this and a many thing Thine eyes shall see clear – O thou tuneful king
Gaining the grace that the Gods give today! But therewithal cried Orpheus eagerly; “O ye if men should learn that one might die And yet return, should not their grief be less
Falter no more twixt time of longing pain And time of gaining all that they may gain?” Soft spake the voice; “And thou, O Orpheus then, Wilt bear this thing alone of living men,
Help them in this and leave a tale to tell. For whereas neither God nor man indeed Thou fain wouldst be yet may we grant thy need. Great art thou, great and strong all things to bear!”
Yet a sick fear possessed him, he gan quake As the reed set amid the stream: then spake The voice again: “Nay be thou of good cheer For hither soon shall come the Messenger
And give thee tidings from the unknown land. – O glorious Orpheus, leader of the earth, Into the paths of rest and endless mirth, Well hast thou done to seek us face to face
For the worlds weary sorrow: surely thou Art clean apart from all men born ere now, And as thou wieldest grief so joy can wield, And hold thy patience as an untouched shield
If thus thou dost, O forge of melody.” So died the voice, and nothing might he hear Save his own heart a-beating: but strange fear Unreasoning, of some huge mocking ill
And struggled with the other half, wherein Was fluttering joy of what he looked to win Mixed with confused longing: and so dealt These things together, that at last he felt
But over him a heaviness gan pass As if of coming happy death, and slow He sank adown on the halls threshold now, And in dead sleep lay long in that dull land
He woke up with the sound of his own name Filling the air: a sense of wrong and shame Wrought in him as his heavy head he raised And round about him through the half-dusk gazed:
Who had been proud and great a while ago: He rose at last, and therewithal he heard His name given forth, and afterward this word: “O Orpheus, art thou ready for the sake
Unknowing mid unknowing men to dwell With one who many a secret thing could tell Yet may not? art thou willing to see eyes Thou lovest so grow cold amid surprise
Of mortal men who wear away blind days, They know not why? Wilt thou be satisfied To have a living body that shall hide A shuddering soul, restless gazing across
Unto the things that shall at least endure – A soul to whom nought earthly shall be pure Or strange or great – nay nay not e’en thy love, Thou deemest greater than the Gods above?
Bethink thee; get thee back, and thou shalt see Thy world again, and nurse thy grief therein, Thy grief and love, then a short space win The rest of death, and gifts thou dream’st not of.
Ere this world’s-day is ended – speak and pray, And take the gift the Gods will give today!” Then Orpheus cried; “O whose’er thou art That speaketh: surely I can hear a part
Shall surely see mine own love presently, She and I face to face – e’en she whom men Once called Eurydice, in old days, when We found each other – for the rest it seems
Flicker about my heart, but show nought clear – – The babble of the mind – If thou can’st hear, And understand, hear this: Give thou me back The only thing my heart shall ever lack,
And men and Gods, that heed me nothing, curse Each other, and the endless wrack begin, The endless strife where nought there is to win But worser swifter ruin – O let me be,
But lonely at the least, with no pretence To bless or curse your vain omnipotence, To be a part of what your hands have wrought, Who knoweth how, for nought, for nought for nought.”
Long silence was there, till there grew sick dread Within him, that but mocks the promise was, And nothing from henceforth would come to pass Except that lonely death for which he cried.
Betwixt the trees, and grew, until he saw A strange and lustrous shape anigh him draw; Man-like it was, not over great to see More than a man, but wings sprang wondrously
Moreover when still nigher him he drew, And seemed about himself strange light to bear, In nought might Orpheus see his visage clear; Now burned his eyes with wild and dreadful light,
Of something good past words, an odorous air Stirred in his long locks, from his pinions fair, Till his bright cheeks were half veiled; then all stern His mouth grew as of one who needs must learn
In even speech unlike to speech of men He spake and said: “Since thou hast made thy choice, Here am I sent to bid thee to rejoice Yet amid trembling, for e’en so it is
Thou hast so wailed for, O thou lonely one, Is not yet gained, or the deed fully done The Gods have mind to do – nay what strange pain Of hope deferred sickens thine heart again?
And I am he for whom on earth ye deem The name of Hermes meet. And now behold, Thou sayest that thy love would wax not cold How many years soever thou mightst live
With all the Gods, to live and long alone And it may be that thou art such an one E en as thou deemest – then in very deed Well shall thy strength now help thee at thy need,
A sign of help to thee, of help enow If thou fail’st not. Toward the world set thy face Nought doubting of the way, and when the place Thou gainest, whence thou enteredst first this wood,
The snow-drift and the winter then shall seem Unto thine eye! how like a wretched dream The overburdened summer of thy woe! For she thine outstretched hand shall surely know,
Shall wonder at thine eyes so over cast With wonder, and the pinning of thy cheek. Thy trembling lips, and why thou dost not speak, And why thou shudderest there upon the brink
Away from her – yea and belike the tears Shall dim her eyes, drawn forth by tender fears Of anger risen within thee, or some change To make the dead forgotten days all strange
The pity for each other’s agony Shall make love greater – deem’st thou not that earth Shall tremble somewhat through its changing girth When round about her heart thine arms are cast
O happy, happy shall ye be that tide!” Panting stood Orpheus, with eyes staring wide
That all that sweetness from his own heart, hot With hope returning, meeting love had come: Yet when he strove to speak his lips were dumb. Nay scarce he knew if yet his aching eyes
Things were changed round him: then the voice again And oer his heart there swept a wave of pain, Bitter and clod, as, smooth word knit to word Rose up threat, an overhanging sword:
Of love forgotten, helpless to forget, Yet longing and its sweetness all gone by, And no one left to note his misery – Ah me, a space of time ere he should touch
Had changed his life! before the words were said Face to face stood he with this newborn dread, And moaned for pity, as confused and dim Slowly their import floated on to him
Happy shalt thou be, O Orpheus, if the love that is in thee Deal not with time or change or doubt, but still Thou lookest onward through all pain and ill Unto the goal believing that thy love
But ah, how hapless, if thou shouldst forget That thou upon the steps of death art set, If thou shouldst deem this minute all in all And let such dreadful longing on thee fall
On the changed body and the sightless face That ne’er can mate thee, living as thou art; Then certainly a fearful wall shall part Thy soul and her soul; then thy love is weighed
Slowly Orpheus said; “O hollow sound of empty words again! What thing of earth and heaven can know my pain, If ye, O Gods, shall doubt my love? – nay this Rather I say; ye grudge to see love’s bliss
Beset by cold death’s ever narrowing girth Ye let us love – Come love, I know no more How much of that sweet space is now passed o’er Wherein we have to love – come, unseen sweet.
Come the Gods slew thee I redeemed thee dear! Come from the dreadful silence hard to bear Unto the place where each to each we twain May weep the loss of all we hoped to gain!”
And saw no more by him the Shining One, Nay methinks scarce now had a thought of him, As oer the open space into the dim Close wood he hurried: on he went until
With many a thought, until his harp, his friend He ’gan to handle, and therefrom did send A low sweet sound, and his soul’s longing fell Into sweet words whereof e’en these may tell.
Round about the unhoped kiss Whose shadow I have long moaned o’er; Round about the longing sore That the touch of thee shall turn
Round thine eyes and round thy mouth Passeth no murmur of the south, When my lips a little while Leave thy quivering tender smile,
Once again together stand: Sweet is that as all is sweet, For the cold drift shalt thou meet, Kind and cold-cheeked and mine own,
In the wide-wheeled chariot: Then the north shall spare us not; The wide-reaching waste of snow Wilder, lonelier shall grow,
But the warders of the town, When they flash the torches out O’er the snow amid their doubt, And their eyes at last behold
Shall they open, or in fear Cry ‘alas what cometh here, Whence hath come this heavenly one? To tell of all the world undone?
The long street litten scantily With the stream of light before The guest-hall’s just opened door, And our horses’ bells shall cease
Thou shalt tremble, as at last The worn threshold is oerpast And the firelight blindeth thee: Trembling shalt thou cling to me
At thy cold hands slim and fair Thy soft eyes and happy lips Worth ten times their richest ships. O my love, how over-sweet,
When the fire is sunk alow, And the hall made empty now Groweth solemn dim and vast! O my love the night shall last
Laden with our lonely love! Somewhat he lingered now, his hand he laid Upon his forehead even as if he weighted Strange thoughts within him; then he hurried on
Nor spake aught a long while; and then once more A wave of sweet fresh longing swept all o’er His troubled heart: slower a while he went And from his parched mouth song again he sent.
Glad at heart of everything, Yet pensive with the thought of eve? Then the white house shall we leave, And go walk about the meads
Rest at last; and we shall come To that Sun-god’s lonely home, Lonely till the feast-time is, When with prayer and praise of bliss,
There awhile shall we abide, Sitting low down in the porch By that image with the torch: Thy one white hand laid upon
From the far-off Indian mine; And my face nigh toucheth thine, But not touching; and thy gown Fair with spring-flowers cast adown
There the south-west wind shall blow Through thine hair to reach my cheek, As thou sittest, nor mayst speak, Nor mayst move the hand I kiss
Nay, nor turn thine eyes to me. Then desire of the great sea Nigh enow, but all unheard, In the hearts of us is stirred,
And the daffodils downcast Feel thy feet and we are gone From the lonely Sun-Crowned one. Then the meads fade at our back,
That fresh hope that once it had; But we twain grow yet more glad. And apart no more may go When the grassy slope and low
Then we wander hand in hand By the edges of the sea, And I weary more for thee Than if far apart we were,
’Twixt thy lips and mine, 0 love! – Ah, my joy, my joy thereof! Now as he sang he ’gan to wend more slow Yea well nigh stopped, and seemed to hearken now
But his own heart a-beating, and great fear Stung sudden to the quick, and forth he sprang And from his random-smitten harp there rang A loud discordant noise: swift he passed on
A dreadful helpless sense of loneliness That with all fear his spirit did oppress; And at the last he cried: “Eurydice O hearken if thou art anigh to me!
Shouldst faint and fear, and all be left to do Once more – O hearken sweet – this is a dream And all our sorrow now doth only seem And thou art mine and I am thine: we lie,
In the moon-litten bed amid the sound Of leaves light rustling, and my arms are wound About thy body, but thy hands fall down Away from me, O sweet, mine own, mine own!
Therewith from lips and harp the sweet song came. O my love how could it be But summer must be brought to me Brought to the world by thy full love?
Move and bud and change and grow, Till it wraps me wholly now, And I turn from thee a while Its o’er sweetness to beguile
Ah me have I gained the best, Have I no more to desire No more hope to vex and tire No more fear to sicken me.
All my soul to satisfy. Ah sweet, lest my longing die Een a moment, rise and come, For the roses of our home,
Are too sweet for us to bear Let us wander through the wood Till a little rest seem good To our weary limbs, till we
Neath the chestnut boughs are laid, Faint with love but not downweighted By the summer’s restlessness, Wearied but most fain to bless
With the hope the spring once had. He broke his song off therewithal; but vain His hurrying feet seemed the sweet end to gain How so he hastened: in his ears there grew
Noises of lands lonely of men, but full Of uncouth things; the heavy sound and dull Of earth cast unto earth, the swallowing sea Changing to roaring fire presently;
Against the lone hall’s rattling window-pane; Low moaning of the wind that was not there Swift wings of pigeons that the heavy air Might never nourish: things known that did change
Till his brain gan to reel, and soon he thought, How if to dreamlike hearing there were brought The sight of dreams? And even therewithal It seemed to him a crowd his name did call
Was growing, when the darkness seemed to break, And once more through the shadowless strange day Came thronging forth that crowd of sorrows grey, Silent, slow-moving staring all at him;
He stayed and hid his eyes a while to cry; “O if they mocked me not, and thou art nigh, Help with thy love thy patience O my sweet, To take these unseen fetters from my feet
O help me yet, dear spirit of my love, Help me Eurydice;” Sweet was the name Upon his lips, and over him there came A feeling as of rest: the tumult sank,
He gazed again, empty the dim dusk was, And onward once again he gan to pass. Yet in a while, when nothing changed he saw The wood, then terror ‘gan again to draw
And scarce his love and longing now seemed fair, And time was dead, and he left all alone Wandering through space where nothing might be won By will or strength of courage: yet withal
And with the last shred left of hope did blend, As wearily and slowly he did wend On through the eyeless dusk, and once again The harp-strings wailed in answer to his pain.
Love amid its death doth bear – – Death, for though the younglings play On the green patch by the way, Through the blue-clad maidens sing
Though to then no pain is love But a dear joy that shall move Heaven and earth to do their will; Yet hangs death above us still;
But foreboding of a pain But the dread of surefoot fate Makes thine eyes so passionate Makes thy hands so fain to cling.
And their song is prayer and praise To the givers of good days, Though we twain sit all alone Thinking how that all things won
To the joy our fresh love brought When all fear of change was dead. O my love, turn not thine head For they laugh amid their song,
That if ever they shall cry From the midst of misery There is that shall help their need. O my love, look not, nor heed
And shall curse those eyes of thine Where death gathers now, and grows Thy passion to its fainting close. On me, look awhile on me!
And if nought thine eyes can see,
And I fail and faint and die As thou diest, O my sweet Our souls meet, and our loves meet, And at last we know for sure
O my love look down and see What they deem felicity! Look down on the autumn earth And their terror-girded mirth;
All thy love and pity and shame! With a wild cry he dropped his harp a down Scarce knowing what a change in him was grown, He smote his hands together, and ran on
For far away betwixt the trees gan gleam A feeble light, that verily did seem To be the day: “O me, Eurydice, Be swift,” he cried, “to follow after me,
And with the very best of all he gives Shall we be glad, if for a little space. O the fair earth, my sweet, the joyous place, Filled with the pleasure of thy loveliness
No answer to his breathless cry there came Whatso he hoped; again he cried her name, And the light broadened, as his swift feet drew On toward it, until breathless, dazed, he knew
The trees grew thinner, the world’s light did fill His eyes, his heart: yet e’en with all so won The last sick fear and horror fell upon His quivering soul – was all a dream, drawn forth
More than anothers? Sick and faint he stood Now on the very border of the wood, And strove to think and strove to heed & see: Without the winter wind sang mournfully
Was driven round about & to and fro, Veiling the sky and earth: he gasped for breath For all seemed failing: “O thou bitter Death,” He cried, “and shall I die, and shall she live,
Her life for my life?” Still he faced the world And heard no sound but of the wind that hurled The white snow up and on; till suddenly Rigid and stark he grew, and shrieked; “A lie,
Down in the dark depths whereof no tongue tells.” Then with a dreadful face slowly he turned Unto the wood, and through the dark there burned A sudden white light, pure, that blinded not.
But very love; for through the midst of it His mortal eyes beheld her body flit, Yea coming toward him: her remembered eyes Gazing upon him in no other wise
Their feet drew each to each and all was good. So was it for a space no man may name Or measure; then a dreadful darkness came Oer all things, such a sickening void as though
About a wide waste world made all in vain, The very body of the deathless pain Immeasurable, that was himself, his soul. He moved and knew it not; the wind did roll
And in the close set beech-trees did it roar, As on the white world went the dusk adown Mid cold and clamour: but o’er him was thrown The dreadful silence of the Gods, as he
With heart too dead to thing of life or death Which was the best, or why he yet drew breath What fell to him after that last sad sight How shall I say? it may be that cold night
With mournful aimless dreams; that the morn, stilled By iron frost, white world, and sky of grey, Had more of blank despair than een such day Will often have – that on his weary bed
To hearken, and a strange wild thrill did cross His dreary oft-told tale of endless loss And waning hope, as the wind rushing by Seemed in the breast of it to bear a cry
A name unknown: until there grew a shame Of his own lonely grief within his heart And to that cry he cried to have a part In some more godlike sorrow than the days
I know not I – but know as the years grew Some rumour of the tale twixt false and true Did reach men’s hearts, whereof it came that some Told of sad shapes haunting that Thracian home,
And some that when the night held most of doubt And terror round the black Laconian wood, When heaviest the dark oer it did brood, When wildest roared the wind about its trees,
Of the o’erhanging boughs about its brink And to its narrowest the vexed stream did shrink – – That at such tides, amid the wind heard shrill, Cleaving the dark like threat of godsent ill,
The name of that dead love that lost delight Would come upon the world – Eurydice What hideth so thy hands thine eyes from me? – But the world wore through years of good & bad
Or more of hope, of Orpheus men ’gan tell: Such as how death at last to him befell Long after this: for he was slain they said By the God-maddened bands that Bacchus led
Say that the tuneful muses took him home, That on the cloud-hid steep of Helicon From out the world’s grief a calm life he won Nothing forgotten of this feverish pain
And he not glad nor grieved, but God indeed. Ah let such go their ways, his earthly need Ye know; his earthly longing and defeat. Thank him low-voiced that even this is sweet
A little hope from pity and from pain. [Alternative ending c4: These 40 lines correspond to lines 70-108 of c3 folio 14.]
Dancing about him, calling on the name Of him who moved them; till they ringed him round And closed upon him: then a dreadful sound Burst from his lips of hate & fear & scorn,
A curse on Gods and women – Then the lord Who unseen ruled their hearts, moved by the word Cast rage into their hearts as tells the tale
As round about him a short space they stood In sudden silence boding nothing good: Then rose in hands too eager mad to feel The golden staves and round gan surge & reel
Until the autumn sun sank overlate, And in the river did the pale moon gleam; And then as waking from a fevered dream They drew back trembling, and began to stare
Moveless and dead; then some beside him knelt, Sighing, and weak as sick folk, and some felt His wasted hands, and weeping some upraised His once loved head wherefrom the sad eyes gazed
‘The very Love, chased from the World away Ye would not let live, lonely wandering; How shall ye live without this precious thing?’ Then gan loud wailing round about to be,
And for his corpse a bier of boughs they wove And slowly to the golden House of Love Bore through the solemn of the night Orpheus the singer, once the World’s Delight,
But that the flesh looked backward once & failed [c1: Fragment of the unfinished Orpheus]
The first notes of the brown slim-throated bird Mix with departing voice of maid and man, And rustle of the hedge-rows as they ran, That joyous company, from rose to rose:
Yet rustled something more than leaves or grass; Wearied and faint, as a half-sigh did pass His ears confused that was not of the wind: Weak, sick with love, as now his eyes, half-blind,
Alone and his after the toil and care; Alone and his if but a little while! They drew anigh, their lips forgot to smile; They eyes forgot to weep, their palms knew not
Until – ah me! – breast unto breast they clung So long so long! high up the white moon hung, From out the pear-tree sang the nightingale; The thin stream trickling down the grassy vale
Was heard from far, by night made musical, And rustle of the leaves was round about, And night grew cold, and all the stars were out When next twixt face and face the scented wind
How long a space of the worlds life! – No no; So short so short, when set against the woe Of hungry lips cold cheeks and unkissed eyes That een this this and this ne’er satisfies!
They wandered down the green path of the place Her knee brushed down the bending lilies there Scattering their golden dust and on her hair Fell the last apple-blossoms of the May
From head to foot her unmatched daintiness The heart of his sick longing did caress, And seemed to say, all made for thee for thee! How can it be thou turnest not to me!
And once again her quivering red lips burned Upon his lips, and hand in hot hand lay With feverish trembling of the long delay Complaining sore, and still no word they spake
Fearful lest all should begin again Mid scanty sight and unquenched longing pain. And yet once more because of time’s hard hand They needs must part a little yet, and stand
While the soft wind did in her raiment play, And cooled his burning cheek, that had been laid So close to hers; and some faint speech they made, Whose sound no letters written yet will show,
With lamps that made the dim and wavering green Of windy night a strange thing to be seen, As wide it stream oer trees and flowery grass Then on they went until they too did pass
Her sweet face flushing with her love untold, And see the wonder of her sandalled feet The close-shut dewy daisies lightly meet In such wise, as if they too felt his love
But when at last close to the porch they were Him-seemed he scarce might see her beauty clear, Despite the growing light; so passion burned Within his heart, and therewithal he turned
But e’en therewith through the fair night did break – – O from her lips? – a sound half sigh half scream, And all was changed as in fearful dream, Too fearful to be real; on the cold sward
Had smitten her unseen; with such wild fear As words may tell not did he kneel by her And caught her hand, and found it weak & cold, And bared the breast he had not dared behold
And pressed the lips such fruit of love that bore, And strove to cry her name, and while he clung About her, fawning on her; but his tongue Seemed withered in the mouth of him, and she
Mingling with rage against the Gods that slew, The world that would not heed, from changed lips drew A dreadful wordless sound, unlike to aught That men may dream of ere the souls are caught
He lay upon her bosom cold and white, Blind, deaf, and, after that first bitter cry – Dumb also; with no hope, not e’en to die; Not e’en to die; for was it all so sure
To see their deep joy in the dreary place If they at last should yet meet face to face In whatsoever wise. So there he lay Not heeding when the night turned into day
And called in terror on his well-loved name: Scarce heeding when their hands in gentle wise Drew him away, nor when before his eyes They sought for his love’s hurt. Of what avail
But this: ‘She that time past turned days to years Because of longing, and then dried my tears, Weeping when I had creased to weep for pain, Is gone is gone, and will not come again!’
How dead she lay, her foot, he knew so fair All changed and swollen by the deadly sting Of a green-scaled cold-hearted creeping thing Charged with the inner venom of the earth;
The maidens cried above: when they said ‘Wilt thou not kiss thy sweet one lying dead,’ He stooped a down een as a well-taught child And close to her dead lips his white lips smiled,
Upon them and no breath thenceforth did pass. Thereafter hours, or days or years passed by, He knew not which, and then he stood anigh A high-raised pile upon a flowery knoll,
And white things moved about him, and he saw A red torch to the odorous faggots draw, And their red tongues of flame leapt up, and then Sore wails he heard, as if of maids and men,
Yet not aright he seemed to hear and see. And one spake anigh to him, and said In a low voice; ‘Alas as one long dead Moving by magic art he seems to be;’
Therefore no change, no rest at all I know And all the world is but a hollow show; Because I shall not die nor go to her, Who now being dead, and knowing all, must bear
“When will the Gods die and all things be oer. So folk say that the mourning country side Expected nought but that he should have died And with hushed voices would they pass his house
Neath the June sunlight to their timorous eyes Who feared so great a grief-due sacrifice They did unto the Gods that he they loved So lasting well might yet again be moved
The sweet strange troubles of his wooing bore Belike it was they did not pray in vain Because the gods who sit above our pain Have given us no such strength as theirs to bear
Since they have taken from us all the best And pain grows old and sickens like the rest And dies unless we die before its death. Natheless the summer long my story saith
Was grievous to him and the long day done Still left the night amidst of scanty sleep Over his ever restless head to creep Yet day passed day and came not back again
And empty was the changeless slow process Of pitiless time to hear his wretchedness How know I how hope grows again when all Has seemed for aye into the dark to fall
Our heads when we were young and glad with love Seemed changeless as that love as day by day We watched the evening sunlight fade away Twixt its high branches now our love is dead
And three feet further do its acorns fall Upon the green and three inches more It bole hath gained of girth from bark and core Nor any easier to note than this
In the sad singer’s mind since dead & gone Time was to him, and he all left alone Amid a world that once was well beloved And no more might avail now or be moved
So wellbeloved that pleasant place of mirth Amid all things so held him with its chains That still no thought he had to end his pain Or strive to end or through doubtful night
He might not hold, so passed the summer by Mid shifting of his silent misery But when it grew to the mid autumn tide He crept abroad again and wandered wide
The children playing on the wayside patch Of dewy green in early morn or saw The mist from off the noisy vine and draw As languidly the day drew on to noon
Some little knot of vintagers and stand Beside the way while hand locked fast in hand and eyes fixed on the yellow litten stead Down by the stream the goal of the hot head
And after them with firm feet onward strode The man of forty summers pondering In weary mood and then the broken string Of fair young girls darkening the moonlit way
Of their brown raiment making the night sweet With laugh & song and patter of light feet – And then perchance some ## pair walking slow Unto the house that no more hope did know
And then night’s hush rose up an unseen wall Twixt hope and truth to these but unto him A path of hope however thin and dim – For as unto his own abode he went
A strange sweet thing that made him live on still That made him feel a weak new birth of will Yea that it happed to him once and again That in such wise had softened his great pain
On such an eve’s end his most grievous load And gazed upon this fair white nuptial bed Whereon she should be lying, his worn head Fell on the pillow and such grace was his
And on a day when thin-leaved grew the year And the last end of its last hope was near So much more sweet grew his unquenched pain That mends ears heard his harp strings click again
his back against a knotted oak he stood Once hazy afternoon unvexed by wind And mid his weary longing did find His harp within his hand he looked at
He looked at it till he began once more To weep unused tears: then he turned it ore Like an untaught man who has found a thing He knows no how to use; then string by string
Over the ghosts of lays his lost love loved And the harp sounded as if soft it dreamed Then from his wet eyes suddenly there gleamed A flash of joy and living love upright
And like a heaven taught master dealt withal With the strange passion that oer him did fall The tale remembers words alike to this How much soe’er their loveliness we miss
And O my folly! I believed their tale And I have gone about with hanging head And found no place in hill or wood or bale Lonely enough that there I might bewail;
And cried I sorrow sorrow unbeloved – The wood laid hand upon me when I screamed The grass clung round about my heavy feet The cruel sun upon my my hot head streamed
In measured cadence did the worlds pulse beat About my ears and whereso e’er I moved Cried sorrow sorrow sorrow unbeloved I know not what I said for ‘dead’ I cried
Ah fool for rather nothing at that tide Did I remember and no dream brought ease No dream of all the kisses and the peace. Yea I was dead though on the Earth I moved
But not perchance perchance a love I live For all around me is the world dead now All unregarded and meet to give Pleasure or pain from out its painted show
When oer thy face my love my loved lips moved – O sorrow sorrow sorrow unbeloved Perchance I live & certainly though livest And must I ever then be left alone
O strange a strange if thou so hard art grown That thou mayst sit apart and hear my moan Once was thine heart not all so hardly moved – O sorrow sorrow sorrow unbeloved
The singer looked up when his song was done And twist the streaks of shadow and of sun And melancholy autumn trees he saw A company of maidens toward him draw
As though they went on some solemnity Then as in a dumb dream where nought is told But all is known strange memories oer him rolled And he knew now that he had heard of these
Their longings for the sight of his dead love By casting wreaths of woven flowers above Her tear washed tomb, shuddering he stole away A duller veil had crept across his day
As though they knew what sorrow meant or dreamed Of hopeless longing hanging like a chain Still lengthening on the long days passed in vain So on then passed his song still in their ears
Soon dried as make a softer thing of life But he with hate of all the world at strife With a strange hope within him went his ways Until he reached his lorn abiding place
Till long ago twilight and dusk were done And in the dead midnight when certainly It seemed the sun would never rise to die Amidst the waking wind abroad he stole
Whereon was made his lost love’s fair tomb And laid his hand thereon Yet toward the gloom Of clashing woods still oer his shoulder gazed A little while and then his hand he raised
Smote the hard stone and sent forth clear & high Oer the wild night and dark wind tortured trees And dying flowers such measured worlds as these – O hollow image of the very death
Despite the dull curse that thy silence saith My feet are on the way to meet my love O eyeless thing the night is dark about The hounds of hard lipped fear are loosed and out
I tremble too but hope my heart doth move I know thee when the clover flowers did pine They set thee here cold thing to be a sign That neath thee lay all life that once was mine
The lied tomb of my love and made thee lie Harken harp strings clear voice her sweet name cry Once Eurydice and no reply Unto the heart of hope my heart to move –
And with none else but God now dwells that face That gave me once clear nights and shadowy days Be patient feet scarce time to meet my love And yet strangely O thou lie thou holdest me,
Through thy dull void the lips once laid on me Speak midst the silence, love, my heart to move. Loud clear and strange his voice rang through the night And as it waned quick by some strange affright
He heard except the wind that swept around The grassy knoll, yet therewith presently With no charge coming oer the half seen sky As oft rain gan to fall, and when he raised
The tears of autumn from his worn cheek washed The bitter brine of woe, for the rain plashed In heavy drops on marble and dark wreath whose fairness mocked the hopeless sign of death
Went underneath the slowly dying breeze, And reached his home long hours before the day All fear had died all thought had passed away From out his heart but this that on and on & on
That poison of his love and pain had brought The thronged world with hope and fear to nought And filled him with a strength that might be weighed Against the ceaseless toil its sweetness made
That still in shadowy coils about him rolled Changing and changing not, een as the smoke That from the low kiln oer the potter’s folk Rolls beaten by the rain & mingling still
So southward from the wooded hills of Thrace Through the blind rainy night he set his face Nor had he wondered if the dawn had died For ever and no whit did he abide
Because the down beat world beneath its light Could now be seen struggling unhelped in vain Unto the sunless noon through wind and rain Still on he pushed and when at last he stayed
But oer again & oer again still wove Fresh pictures of the meeting of his love Nor did the days pass fast or slow to him For time was dead, and souless things and dim
Who held him certes as one God possessed And tended him in aweful silent care Yet when he went the day seemed grown more fair An ill dream gone from them – yet mid these folk
As unto real life – on a day it fell That nigh a place where he had quested well Upon an hillside close beside the way He saw folk gather about noon of day
The clustering folk as though full well he knew What was amid them and there lay a man Of thirty summers, with dead face and wan Turned upward to the sky, a myrtle wreath
Clutching a blood stained knife, and close beside Where maidens with loose hair that wailed & cried About him; and so when the singers eyes Gan question of the thing, his name did rise
The mover of the world but not his woe - Then did an old man answer to his gaze That he who lay there bore for many days – The burden of great love unsatisfied
And at the last his piteous love gained hate From such an one as all compassionate Folk held aforetime – how should he live then Or strive again to deal with happy men
His bitter life would swiftly be forgot And so of all this knife & hand made end – And through what dark ways now his soul may wend We know know not but O Thracian if thou mayst
On this poor wretch who never happy was And on thy way with his poor blessing pass Then Orpheus trembled sore and gazed around For with a fresh pain tortured him his wound
But soft from harp and lips the song welled out – Love set me in a flowery world and fair Love showed me many marvels moving there And said take these if nought thine heart doth dare
Take these and live and lose the better part Love showed me death and said make no delay Love showed me change and said joy ebbs away Love showed me eld, mid vain regrets grown grey
Sickened & swooned by bitter sweetness stung But I aoke at last and born again Said eager hands upon unrest & pain And wrapped myself about with longing vain
As more the root and heart of love I knew O Love love love what is it thou hast done All pains all tears I knew save only one Where is the green earth now where is the sun
Her hands her eyes her lips to bless my love! Ending with strange wild face he turned away Nor might abide to hear what face would say Or meet their eyes, for in his heart was born
Than he had deemed it possible to be Since unreal dealt first smote him suddenly A dreadful fear that he een at the best When his head lay upon the heaving breast
Unto himself alone her love did give That he was all alone yea even then Himself rear to himself all other men And hopes and fears and longings wild but his
Should come back now to call itself a lie To scream what profit of the days gone by Since if they perish ever were they nought To cry seek seek een as this wretched has sought
And thou with thine ownself brought face to face Face to face nought to help thee – fool that sayst How can love die how shall this anguish waste Sure something it shall move what shall it move
Yea joy in love or pain in love – poor fool Thy love shall move thyself make the tool Of what thou knowest not – yea turn back again Look at the wretch who lies abed of pain
Did that pain seem that thus his life hath cursed Yea a sweet secret not to be expressed For fear the world at hearing of it blessed Should falter in its course for fear that she
Een though she cannot love me – Than since the first days he had been – ah love Ah love he thought that all the gods should move Yet canst not move withal thine agony
Wild thoughts across his heart and this at last That all the love and happiness gone past Was but a dream a thing himself had made From his own heart that shrinking and afraid
He should wake up one one day, and find no face No voice of any man or God while he Drifted about the dread eternity Should never die should never hope or fear
Nay no voice left to cry come back again Come back my folly come my yearning pain Come back a bitterness of heaven and earth Yea what I called despair once that had birth
Before I knew that I was quite alone! Wrapped in such thoughts he hurried on and on Not resting where his evening rest was won And thinking less of those he left behind
Crossing the threshold than a happy man Thinketh at morn of his pale dreams & wan And yet at whiles his lips his lyre would speak Things that his heart scarce knew as faint & weak
With that desire that kept his heart alive That made his body strong yet slew in him The simple love of earth – his eyes would swim At such whiles, for a minute soft and sweet,
His quivering face would turn to his old home Till once again the dreadful pang would come Born of despair, yet driving him like hope With all the loneliness of life to cope
Yet smote it with no hard remorseless hand For hazy morns red litten sun set skies Bright windless noons left hopes & memories Unto lark haunted fallow and slim trees
Of fresh turned garden nigh a leafless wood Sat Orpheus on an eve a goodman grey |