Collected Poems Read Free Page A

me!
                             Cool sleep became a haunted thing,
                             Full of the boy untruly amorous;
                   And waking, pain — a disillusionment
    That filled the lonely day with thirst.
    At dawn, at dusk, my feet sought out the hills
    Beloved of shepherd folk, that, haply, sight of him
                                            Might stay the burning here.
    To glimpse his loveliness, to hear his voice
        Answering lightly my light questionings
                   Was sweetness more than mortal thing,
    More than the gods’ ambrosial dalliance —
    And bitterness, my heart, and bitterness!
        Oh, I grew studious in unlearning life,
                   Till I could feign simplicity,
    And use the simple speech of shepherd folk.
                   My utmost intellect was bent to plan
                             Assurance of chance meetings;
                   My craft in beauty to devise which way
    The yellow crocus in my hair might take his praise.
                             At feasts and country festivals,
    When came the dark and stars, I, too, came, there
                             To see his bending body in the dance.
    With not more grace, beneath the twilight breeze
    Bending, the long-stemmed asphodel is swayed.
                             But always something of his grace,
                             His inextinguishable happiness,
    Would seem to break my heart, and I would long to be
                   Freed from that loneliness men call esteem,
                   And there within the dance, a country wench,
        Touching his shining arms, and breathing close
                                            His lithe and burning youth.
                                                      O Thou hast known
    The thousand years and each year’s thousand lovers —
        What need to tell the pangs and tricks of clay
    Common to all; yea, e’en at last to me, Thy child!
        Father, it seemed not evil then — so sweet
        He was; and I, who, most of all the world
                             Loved purity and loathèd lust,
        Became the mark of mine own scorning ere
                             I knew — he was so sweet!
    A something from the freshness of the woods,
    Of cool and shining leaves, of laggard winds,
                             His beauty seemed to catch. I think
        The momentary blood that lights the rose
        Fired his veins with vintage of delight
                                            Perpetually. No lovelier
    The first strong tulip, whose crimson arrogance
    Lords it above blythe Eresos, and daunts
        The lesser darlings of pale April, than
        His mouth … And this, a shepherd boy!
    His thoughts the thoughts of shepherds; his desires,
        The bread and water cravings of the poor.
        No trembling from the madness of my songs
    Could reach his heart; no lofty converse call
                   One cloud of questioning within
        His strange, unshadowed, listening eyes.
    His lore was of the leaves, the clouds, the winds,
        What time the fields, a-frost with heliotrope,
                   Yield richer pasturage; what time,
                             The starrier meadows of wild broom.
    This, this my lover! Mine, whose choice of mate
                   Was bidden guest in all the courts
                             And goodly palaces of Greece!
    Lo, I,