Etèra, L'
Oh, thus Myrrhine in the dawn went out,
the greatly dear, when, too, the weary lamp
that watched went out, wanton, aware of all.
Again Evèno poured the olive's dew,
and on the field road, in a little shrine,
closed, of marble, he hung the lamp on high,
to make Myrrhine's night illumined there.
It was in vain, for finally she slept,
alone; but eagerly her soul fled forth,
in the great silence of the road, where shone
those rays (she moved with the faint, whirring sound
of a night moth), to seek her body loved.
Once more she would behold, perfect and white,
her lovely flower of flesh, flower that its bloom
unfolded all the night, and closed at dawn,
avid and parched, and with no fragrance more.
The whirring night moth sought now this dead flower,
and flapped her wings against the shining lamp
that knew the loves. But nothing could she see
of the belovèd body there entombed
and with mysterious balsams laid away.
Nor would she enter yet upon her walk,
as spirits of the air will oft delay
to take their flight, like incense, that is meant
to melt away, while fragrance it exhales.
But lo! along the dusky road there came
to view a chorus gay, with torches spent,
from youthful banqueting luxurious.
And at that lamp there in the solitude
Moscho lit his spent torch, and read on high:
HERE SLEEPS MYRRHINE, LIGHTED BY HER LAMP .
IT IS THE FIRST TIME NOW, AND IS FOREVER .
And he said: Fortune, friends, is kind to us!
Myrrhine sleeps her nights now, and alone.
I used to implore the God of Love, at last
to let Myrrhine slumber in my heart.
I prayed to Love, and it was Death that heard.
Then Càllia spoke: She was a bee, and made
sweet honey, but she punctured with her sting.
Agathia said: She mingled thorns with buds
of love, and deadly fungi with sweet figs.
And the agèd Phædro: cease these bitter words!
The kindly one, for copper, gave us gold!
And, drunken with sweet wine, they stood awhile
there, in the dusky silence of the road.
The trembling lamp sent out caressing rays
to the crushed wreaths of roses on their heads.
Perchance, drawn thither by that sweet smell dead,
a night moth sounded, faint, invisible.
But now the others came, and each one lit
his torch beneath the lamp. The flutist then
awaked high notes from sleep, with double flute
of boxwood, and, mid flaring flames, the band
moved on, with rythmic sound of treading feet.
But not the soul, she lingered still, and saw
the lights and singing disappear afar.
She had fled the guide who shows the mouldy ways
to spirits of the dead. From him she had fled,
and knew not now, alone, to find the path.
And still she stood beside her sepulcher,
beneath the flickering of her lamp, that knew.
The night was at its zenith, full of stars
all golden, when she heard a footstep near,
a weeping, coming close, acute, and knew
it was Evèno; for, these many days,
Evèno had lost his slumber sweet, and now
he knew that it was in the tomb confined
with dead Myrrhine. Sobbing he unlocked
the shrine's fair entrance, took the lamp, and went
inside. Then deftly, with sharp sword, he tried
the coffin's solid lid, until it moved,
and with both hands, knees braced, he raised it up.
With him, behind his shoulder there, unseen
(the sound of wings was lost in his fierce breath),
there was a shadow hovering, keen to see
the dead Myrrhine. She appeared; and he,
with piercing cry, let fall again the stone
forever, on his slumber and his love.
The soul then fled, fled far, and a red cock
sang a fierce canticle of life: of life,
and she now found herself among the dead.
Nor was the road of death the same for all,
but, wandering apart, they lost themselves
in the infinite obscurity of naught.
And now her way she knew not, but she saw
numerous shadows pass into the shade
and melt away: with gentle guide some went,
serene, along the path, and others spurned
in vain the hand of their sure fate. But now
for many days she had escaped her guide,
and unknown was the way. Hence she addressed
a sweet and virgin soul, who, as she walked,
had turned about again to the sweet world.
Of her she asked the way, but that pure soul,
behold! through her whole form she trembled then,
as does the shadow of a poplar tree
slender and young. “I know it not,” she said,
and vanished in the pallor of the All.
Then spoke Myrrhine to a saintly soul
that mourned there, seated, her sweet face, suffused
in tears, between her hands. Of her she asked.
It was a mother, who still clasped the thought
of her sweet children; and she too replied:
“I know it not”; and then she disappeared
swiftly into the sorrow of the All.
Myrrhine wandered long among the dead,
in misery, as mid the living, once.
But now it was in vain; and in the world
of shadows, great the horror was, when'er
that naked, restless soul, in face of all,
would come to view, at crossing of the ways.
And lo! at last, Evèno's soul passed by
sleepless, on fire with thirst, in haste to reach
the waters of oblivion; nor knew one
the other. They had never seen each other.
Up from the crossways then Myrrhine ran,
and asked the way of that swift soul unknown.
“I am in haste,” Evèno said to her.
And, horrified, Evèno's soul sped on
more swiftly, the sad, naked soul behind.
But he in mist eternal disappeared
afar. And the other one, Myrrhine, stood
panting, at a new crossing of the ways
uncertain. And she heard there whisperings
most delicate. So little chickens moan,
shut in the egg-shell's hollow. Such a sound
it was, as had Myrrhine, horrified,
already heard, sacred, with faintest tone
arising from her womb, when still she had,
on earth, that lovely flower of flesh of hers,
the petals in full bloom. Myrrhine now,
the courtesan, went toward the whispering.
The naked soul trod cautiously the field
of high grown grass; with care she scanned the ground
amid the sterile, wild fig trees, and saw. . . .
She saw, existing midst the asphodels
and the narcissus, shapeless things 'twixt life
and nothing; shadows thinner still than shade:
children she had refused. Their bloodless hands
held flowers of the evil hemlock, held the spikes
of the impious rye. These were their playthings there.
And they were still between the naught and death,
near to the threshold. And Myrrhine came
to them. The milk-white, wrinkled babes, seeing her,
let forth a dull, faint scream, and, flinging down
the wretched flowers, ran off, flapping their legs
and their long arms, limp and flabby. As when
upon a roadway softened by the rain
the tiny offspring of some toad will turn
and scurry hobblingly away, when steps
come near, so now the children ran; the dead
ere yet they came to birth, those who were spurned,
before they issued forth to beg for love.
But the bronze threshold of the spacious house
was near at hand. And the dark atrium
howled horribly, from watchful dogs below.
Yet there the infant throng went darting in,
trembling, and, after them, their mother sank
into the infinite obscurity.
the greatly dear, when, too, the weary lamp
that watched went out, wanton, aware of all.
Again Evèno poured the olive's dew,
and on the field road, in a little shrine,
closed, of marble, he hung the lamp on high,
to make Myrrhine's night illumined there.
It was in vain, for finally she slept,
alone; but eagerly her soul fled forth,
in the great silence of the road, where shone
those rays (she moved with the faint, whirring sound
of a night moth), to seek her body loved.
Once more she would behold, perfect and white,
her lovely flower of flesh, flower that its bloom
unfolded all the night, and closed at dawn,
avid and parched, and with no fragrance more.
The whirring night moth sought now this dead flower,
and flapped her wings against the shining lamp
that knew the loves. But nothing could she see
of the belovèd body there entombed
and with mysterious balsams laid away.
Nor would she enter yet upon her walk,
as spirits of the air will oft delay
to take their flight, like incense, that is meant
to melt away, while fragrance it exhales.
But lo! along the dusky road there came
to view a chorus gay, with torches spent,
from youthful banqueting luxurious.
And at that lamp there in the solitude
Moscho lit his spent torch, and read on high:
HERE SLEEPS MYRRHINE, LIGHTED BY HER LAMP .
IT IS THE FIRST TIME NOW, AND IS FOREVER .
And he said: Fortune, friends, is kind to us!
Myrrhine sleeps her nights now, and alone.
I used to implore the God of Love, at last
to let Myrrhine slumber in my heart.
I prayed to Love, and it was Death that heard.
Then Càllia spoke: She was a bee, and made
sweet honey, but she punctured with her sting.
Agathia said: She mingled thorns with buds
of love, and deadly fungi with sweet figs.
And the agèd Phædro: cease these bitter words!
The kindly one, for copper, gave us gold!
And, drunken with sweet wine, they stood awhile
there, in the dusky silence of the road.
The trembling lamp sent out caressing rays
to the crushed wreaths of roses on their heads.
Perchance, drawn thither by that sweet smell dead,
a night moth sounded, faint, invisible.
But now the others came, and each one lit
his torch beneath the lamp. The flutist then
awaked high notes from sleep, with double flute
of boxwood, and, mid flaring flames, the band
moved on, with rythmic sound of treading feet.
But not the soul, she lingered still, and saw
the lights and singing disappear afar.
She had fled the guide who shows the mouldy ways
to spirits of the dead. From him she had fled,
and knew not now, alone, to find the path.
And still she stood beside her sepulcher,
beneath the flickering of her lamp, that knew.
The night was at its zenith, full of stars
all golden, when she heard a footstep near,
a weeping, coming close, acute, and knew
it was Evèno; for, these many days,
Evèno had lost his slumber sweet, and now
he knew that it was in the tomb confined
with dead Myrrhine. Sobbing he unlocked
the shrine's fair entrance, took the lamp, and went
inside. Then deftly, with sharp sword, he tried
the coffin's solid lid, until it moved,
and with both hands, knees braced, he raised it up.
With him, behind his shoulder there, unseen
(the sound of wings was lost in his fierce breath),
there was a shadow hovering, keen to see
the dead Myrrhine. She appeared; and he,
with piercing cry, let fall again the stone
forever, on his slumber and his love.
The soul then fled, fled far, and a red cock
sang a fierce canticle of life: of life,
and she now found herself among the dead.
Nor was the road of death the same for all,
but, wandering apart, they lost themselves
in the infinite obscurity of naught.
And now her way she knew not, but she saw
numerous shadows pass into the shade
and melt away: with gentle guide some went,
serene, along the path, and others spurned
in vain the hand of their sure fate. But now
for many days she had escaped her guide,
and unknown was the way. Hence she addressed
a sweet and virgin soul, who, as she walked,
had turned about again to the sweet world.
Of her she asked the way, but that pure soul,
behold! through her whole form she trembled then,
as does the shadow of a poplar tree
slender and young. “I know it not,” she said,
and vanished in the pallor of the All.
Then spoke Myrrhine to a saintly soul
that mourned there, seated, her sweet face, suffused
in tears, between her hands. Of her she asked.
It was a mother, who still clasped the thought
of her sweet children; and she too replied:
“I know it not”; and then she disappeared
swiftly into the sorrow of the All.
Myrrhine wandered long among the dead,
in misery, as mid the living, once.
But now it was in vain; and in the world
of shadows, great the horror was, when'er
that naked, restless soul, in face of all,
would come to view, at crossing of the ways.
And lo! at last, Evèno's soul passed by
sleepless, on fire with thirst, in haste to reach
the waters of oblivion; nor knew one
the other. They had never seen each other.
Up from the crossways then Myrrhine ran,
and asked the way of that swift soul unknown.
“I am in haste,” Evèno said to her.
And, horrified, Evèno's soul sped on
more swiftly, the sad, naked soul behind.
But he in mist eternal disappeared
afar. And the other one, Myrrhine, stood
panting, at a new crossing of the ways
uncertain. And she heard there whisperings
most delicate. So little chickens moan,
shut in the egg-shell's hollow. Such a sound
it was, as had Myrrhine, horrified,
already heard, sacred, with faintest tone
arising from her womb, when still she had,
on earth, that lovely flower of flesh of hers,
the petals in full bloom. Myrrhine now,
the courtesan, went toward the whispering.
The naked soul trod cautiously the field
of high grown grass; with care she scanned the ground
amid the sterile, wild fig trees, and saw. . . .
She saw, existing midst the asphodels
and the narcissus, shapeless things 'twixt life
and nothing; shadows thinner still than shade:
children she had refused. Their bloodless hands
held flowers of the evil hemlock, held the spikes
of the impious rye. These were their playthings there.
And they were still between the naught and death,
near to the threshold. And Myrrhine came
to them. The milk-white, wrinkled babes, seeing her,
let forth a dull, faint scream, and, flinging down
the wretched flowers, ran off, flapping their legs
and their long arms, limp and flabby. As when
upon a roadway softened by the rain
the tiny offspring of some toad will turn
and scurry hobblingly away, when steps
come near, so now the children ran; the dead
ere yet they came to birth, those who were spurned,
before they issued forth to beg for love.
But the bronze threshold of the spacious house
was near at hand. And the dark atrium
howled horribly, from watchful dogs below.
Yet there the infant throng went darting in,
trembling, and, after them, their mother sank
into the infinite obscurity.
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