Classic Poem

Once, by an arch of ancient stone,
Beneath Italian olive-trees
(In pentecostal youth, too prone
To visions such as these),

And now a second time, to-day,
Yonder, an hour ago! 'T is strange.
—The hot beach shelving to the bay,
That far white mountain range,

The motley town where Turk and Greek
Spit scorn and hatred as I pass;
Seraglio windows, doors that reek
Sick perfume of the mass;

The muezzin cry from Allah's tower,
French sailors singing in the street;
The Western meets the Eastern power,
And mingles—this is Crete.

Yonder on snowy Ida, Zeus
Was cradled; through those mountain haunts
The new moon hurried, letting loose
The raving Corybants,

Who after third the Cyclades
To Thebes of Cadmos, with the slim
Wild god for whom Euripides
Fashioned the deathless hymn.

And yonder, ere in Ajalon
Young Judah's lion ramped for war,
Dædalus built the Knossian
House of the Minotaur.

—'T is strange! No wonder and no dread
Was on me; hardly even surprise.
I knew before he raised his head
Or fixed me with his eyes

That it was he; far off I knew
The leaning figure by the boat,
The long straight gown of faded hue;
The hair that round his throat

Fell forward as he bent in speech
Above the naked sailor there,
Calking his vessel on the beach,
Full in the noonday glare.

Sharp rang the sailor's mallet-stroke
Pounding the two into the seam;
He paused and mused, and would have spoke,
Lifting great eyes of dream

Unto those eyes which slowly turned—
As once before, even so now—
Till full on mine their passion burned
With, “Yes, and is it thou?”

Then o'er the face about to speak
Again he leaned; the sunburnt hair,
Fallen forward, hid the tawny cheek;
And I who, for my share,

Had but the instant's gaze, no more,
And sweat and shuddering of the mind,
Stumbled along the dazzling shore,
Until a cool sweet wind.

From far-off Ida's silver caves
Said, “Stay”; and here I sit the while.
—Silken Mediterranean waves,
From isle to fabled isle,

Flame softly north to Sunium,
And west by England's war-cliff strong
To where Ulysses men saw loom
The mount of Dante's song.

As far as where the coast-line dies
In sharp sun-dazzle, goes the light
Dance-dance of amber butterflies
Above the beach-flowers, bright

And jealous as the sudden blood
The lovers of these island girls
Spill in their frays; o'er flower and bud
The light dance dips and whirls.

And all my being, for an hour,
Has sat in stupor, without thought,
Empty of memory, love, or power,
A dumb wild creature caught

In toils of purpose not its own!
But now at last the ebbed will turns;
Feeding on spirit, blood, and bone,
The ghostly protest burns.

“Yea, it is I, 't is I indeed!
But who art thou, and plannest what?
Beyond all use, beyond all need!
Importunate, unbesought,

“Unwelcome, unendurable!
To the vague boy I was before—
O unto him thou camest well;
But now, a boy no more,

“Firm-seated in my proper good,
Clear-operant in my functions due,
Potent and plenteous of my mood,—
What hast thou here to do?

“Yes, I have loved thee—love thee, yes;
But also—hear'st thou?—also him
Who out of Ida's wilderness
Over the bright sea-rim,

“With shaken cones and mystic dance,
To Dirce and her seven waters
Led on the raving Corybants,
And lured the Theban daughters

“To play on the delirious hills
Three summer days, three summer nights,
Where wert thou when these had their wills?
How liked thee their delights?

“Past Melos, Delos, to the straits,
The waters roll their spangled mirth,
And westward, through Gibraltar gates,
To my own under-earth.

“My glad, great land, which at the most
Knows that its fathers knew thee; so
Will spend for thee nor count the cost;
But follow thee? Ah, no!

“Thine image gently fades from earth!
Thy churches are as empty shells,
Dim-plaining of thy words and worth,
And of thy funerals!

“But oh, upon what errand, then,
Leanest thou at the sailor's ear?
Hast thou yet more to say, that men
Have heard not, and must hear?”