Classic Poem

( CHORUS FROM A PLAY )

I

H E swept remorse from his eyes; with unstaying feet
For the foam-bitten shores
He hasten'd, hounded by Fate
Soon shall the sails, like cliffs, cover the fleet,
The sea flash white to the freight,
The pulse and the thresh of the oars
Winged man, born of woman, outsoars
The hawk in his flight: he falleth anon and outpours
His eager estate.

II

The Olympian breathed with his mouth, the hero passionate-blind,
Drave where he led
As a ship whose helmsman is gone;
Yea, as a ship smitten, curst by the wind,
He went out muttering, wan;
He spake not, turn'd not his head.
Where is the chaplet of love? It is faded, is dead!
Woe to the Spousal, the Bride, the desolate bed,
Loveless, alone!

III

Woman that liveth to love, to trust, and to cling,
Being forsworn,
Choketh the tears as they start,
Masketh the glint of her passion, traileth her wing
As a bird, grieveth apart,
Tearless, voiceless, forlorn
Ripple of laughing and speech hath she to love; but to mourn,
Tempest of sighs, and labouring bosom, and shorn
Hair, and dead heart.

IV

Man that is born of woman, purposeful, bound,
Lifteth his eyes
To the wild splendour of God,
Dazed and blinded: Earth he loveth, her sound
As of flutes and reed-music, her load
Of beauty and ecstasies.
But how shall he know to love the terrors, the mysteries,
The hush of the silence, the brooding, the still surprise,
The awful Abode?

V

This is the lot of a woman, she boweth her knees,
Yieldeth her limbs,
Giveth her candour, her untrodden soul,
Into thy keeping, O man! For lordship she sees
Thron'd on thy brows, and control.
Lit by thy favour she swims
Halo'd about with the sun of thy smiling, and hymns
Hymeneal, with odours of myrtle, and dreams
Golden and whole!

VI

Whenas the bruit of the battle, and lust of the war,
The smell of the sea,
Drive thee abroad, she cannot gainsay
Aught of thy purpose, O man; but dumbly afar
Setteth her eyes to the day:
She bendeth her knee.
Hope against hope! for the strength of the God is on thee,
Fever of blood-thirst, passion that tangles the free,
Have thee for prey.

VII

Power have Gods to drive us whither they will,
Humble our knees,
Lure us to ruin and sin:
Power to whelm, spurn, madden, and kill;
Crave us they may, net, and fasten us in,
Launch us on desolate seas!
Such might have the Gods, and power; but no peace
Follows them there. Men they may bind at their ease,
But their love never win!