Demeter

Hymen (1921)

I

Men, fires, feasts,steps of temple, fore-stone, lintel,step of white altar, fire and after-fire,slaughter before,fragment of burnt meat,deep mystery, grapple of mind to reachthe tense thought,power and wealth, purpose and prayer alike,(men, fires, feasts, temple steps)Ð-useless.

Useless to me who plantwide feet on a mighty plinth,useless to me who sit,wide of shoulder, great of thigh,heavy in gold, to pressgold back against solid backof the marble seat:useless the dragons wrought on the arms,useless the poppy-buds and the gold insetof the spray of wheat.

Ah they have wrought me heavyand great of limbÐ-she is slender of waist,slight of breast, made of many fashions;they have set her small feeton many a plinth;she they have known,she they have spoken with,she they have smiled upon,she they have caughtand flattered with praise and gifts.

But useless the flatteryof the mighty powerthey have granted me:for I will not stay in her breast,the great of limb,though perfect the shell they havefashioned me, these men!

Do I sit in the market-placeÐ-do I smile, does a noble browbend like the brow of ZeusÐ-am I a spouse, his or any,am I a woman, or goddess or queen,to be met by a god with a smile-Ðand left?

II

Do you ask for a scroll,parchment, oracle, prophecy, precedent;do you ask for tablets marked with thoughtor words cut deep on the marble surface,do you seek measured utterance or the mystic trance?

Sleep on the stones of DelphiÐdare the ledges of Pallasbut keep me foremost,keep me before you, after you, with you,never forget when you startfor the Delphic precipice,never forget when you seek Pallasand meet in thoughtyourself drawn out from yourselflike the holy serpent,never forgetin thought or mysterious tranceÐI am greatest and least.

Soft are the hands of Love,soft, soft are his feet;you who have twined myrtle,have you brought crocuses,white as the innerstript bark of the osier,have you setblack crocus against the blacklocks of another?

III

Of whom do I speak?

Many the children of godsbut first I takeBromios, fostering prince,lift from the ivy brake, a king.

Enough of the lightning,enough of the tales that speakof the death of the mother:strange tales of a shelterbrought to the unborn,enough of tale, myth, mystery, precedentÐa child lay on the earth asleep.

Soft are the hands of Love,but what soft handsclutched at the thorny ground,scratched like a small white ferretor foraging whippet or hound,sought nourishment and foundonly the crackling of ivy,dead ivy leaf and the whiteberry, food for a bird,no food for this who sought,bending small head in a fever,whining with little breath.

Ah, small black head,ah, the purple ivy bush,ah, berries that shook and spilton the form beneath,who begot you and left?

Though I begot no man childall my days,the child of my heart and spirit,is the child the gods desertalike and the mother in deathÐthe unclaimed Dionysos.

IV

What of herÐmistress of Death?

Form of a golden wreathwere my hands that girt her head,fingers that strove to meet,and met where the whisps escapedfrom the fillet, of tenderest gold,small circlet and slimwere my fingers then.

Now they are wrought of ironto wrest from earthsecrets; strong to protect,strong to keep back the winterwhen winter tracks too soonblanch the forest:strong to break dead things,the young tree, drained of sap,the old tree, ready to drop,to lift from the rotting bedof leaves, the oldcrumbling pine tree stock,to heap bole and knot of firand pine and resinous oak,till fire shatter the darkand hope of springrise in the hearts of men.

What of herÐmistress of DeathÐwhat of his kiss?

Ah, strong were his arms to wrestslight limbs from the beautiful earth,young hands that plucked the firstbuds of the chill narcissus,soft fingers that brokeand fastened the thorny stalkwith the flower of wild acanthus.

Ah, strong were the arms that took(ah, evil the he���
and graceless),but the kiss was less passionate!

from Hymen (1921)