Classic Poem

" H IPPOLITOS . "

Phaidra . O Women, dwellers in this portal-seat
Of Pelops' land, gazing toward my Crete,
How oft, in other days than these, have I
Thro night's long hours thought of man's misery,
And how this life is wreckt! And, to mine eyes,
Not in man's knowledge, not in wisdom, lies
The lack that makes for sorrow. Nay, we scan
And know the right — for wit hath many a man —
But will not to the last end strive and serve.
For some grow too soon weary, and some swerve
To other paths, setting before the Right
The diverse far-off image of Delight;
And many are delights beneath the sun!
Long hours of converse; and to sit alone
Musing — a deadly happiness, — and Shame:
Tho two things there be hidden in one name,
And Shame can be slow poison if it will.
This is the truth I saw then, and see still;
Nor is there any magic that can stain
That white truth for me, or make me blind again.
Come, I will show thee how my spirit hath moved.
When the first stab came, and I knew I loved,
I cast about how best to face mine ill.
And the first thought that came, was to be still
And hide my sickness. — For no trust there is
In man's tongue, that so well admonishes
And counsels and betrays and waxes fat
With griefs of its own gathering! — After that
I would my madness bravely bear and try
To conquer by my own heart's purity.
My third mind, when these two availed me naught
To quell love, — was to die
Curst be they whose lips are clean
And wise and seemly, but their hearts within
Rank with bad daring! How can they, O Thou
That walkest on the waves, great Cyprian, how
Smile in their husbands' faces and not fall,
Not cower before the Darkness that knows all,
Ay, dread the dead still chambers, lest one day
The stones find voice, and all be finisht!
Nay,
Friends, 't is for this I die; lest I stand there
Having shamed my husband and the babes I bare. . . .
'T is written, one way is there, one, to win
This life's race, could man keep it from his birth,
A true clean spirit. And thro all this earth
To every false man, that hour comes apace
When Time holds up a mirror to his face,
And girl-like, marvelling, there he stands to see
How foul his heart. Be it not so with me!
— Translation of Gilbert M URRAY .