 | The Poems and Plays of William Vaughn Moody |  |
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THE MOON-MOTH
Again the steep path turns, and pained at heart
With prescience of the beauty soon to be,
Climbing I break the flowering weeds apart
And the low vines that mat about my knee,
Till airy-strong against the sky and sea
Juts out the fragment of a temple's base
And one great corner-stone.
Deep, deep, within me, in some deepest place
Of unknown being, laughter wakes, and moans,
As on the marble ledge I lay my face,
Bowed down with thoughts of Her who had this house and throne.
With prescience of the beauty soon to be,
Climbing I break the flowering weeds apart
And the low vines that mat about my knee,
Till airy-strong against the sky and sea
Juts out the fragment of a temple's base
And one great corner-stone.
Deep, deep, within me, in some deepest place
Of unknown being, laughter wakes, and moans,
As on the marble ledge I lay my face,
Bowed down with thoughts of Her who had this house and throne.
Above the market and the popular well
Within whose carven niche the old men sat
To murmur at Medea, and to tell
How her witch-love for Jason turned to hate,
High o'er the struggles old men wonder at,
High in the delicate heavens, beheld of none
Save who should climb above
Yonder hill-fountain where Bellerophon
Snared the winged horse and backed him in the moon,—
Corinth the city raised up unto Love
This specular temple pure and its far-gazing grove;
Within whose carven niche the old men sat
To murmur at Medea, and to tell
How her witch-love for Jason turned to hate,
High o'er the struggles old men wonder at,
High in the delicate heavens, beheld of none
Save who should climb above
Yonder hill-fountain where Bellerophon
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Corinth the city raised up unto Love
This specular temple pure and its far-gazing grove;
That in the intense zenith laughing free,
Making inviolable light its screen,
Passion might know a wilder secrecy,
To an abandonment more wounding lean,
More richly healing of a hurt more keen;
That, high in prospect of all Hellene story,
Love, which will gather power
From all it sees of beauty and of glory,
And on the top of every lifted hour
Stand singing of itself as from a tower,
Might stand and sing at ease from this bright promontory.
Making inviolable light its screen,
Passion might know a wilder secrecy,
To an abandonment more wounding lean,
More richly healing of a hurt more keen;
That, high in prospect of all Hellene story,
Love, which will gather power
From all it sees of beauty and of glory,
And on the top of every lifted hour
Stand singing of itself as from a tower,
Might stand and sing at ease from this bright promontory.
Temple and grove are gone; the summit lies
Bare to the feet of the fantastic year.
Weeds of strange flower, and moths of many dyes,
Creepers and flyers small, that, watched anear,
Are as outlandish gods and things of fear
Seen at their amorous revels and their wars—
These only keep the height,
These and the jeweled air that laps and jars
In tide and gulf-stream of ecstatic light,
Through pale gold deeps, whereof no ripple mars
Outspreaded Greece flame-pale and more than earthly bright.
Bare to the feet of the fantastic year.
Weeds of strange flower, and moths of many dyes,
Creepers and flyers small, that, watched anear,
Are as outlandish gods and things of fear
Seen at their amorous revels and their wars—
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These and the jeweled air that laps and jars
In tide and gulf-stream of ecstatic light,
Through pale gold deeps, whereof no ripple mars
Outspreaded Greece flame-pale and more than earthly bright.
Those faint vermilion hills that southward peer
Look over into Clytemnestra's land,
As if each crouching summit leaned to hear
White-lipped Cassandra, by Apollo banned
To drink with cries of loathing from his hand
Her horrid vision of the house of sin;
Those heights of flame and dew,
Gleaming far westward, lock Arcadia in;
And where the olive-mottled gulf burns blue,
The Muses' mount, with silver summits twin,
Shines o'er the violet steep that Delphi clings unto.
Look over into Clytemnestra's land,
As if each crouching summit leaned to hear
White-lipped Cassandra, by Apollo banned
To drink with cries of loathing from his hand
Her horrid vision of the house of sin;
Those heights of flame and dew,
Gleaming far westward, lock Arcadia in;
And where the olive-mottled gulf burns blue,
The Muses' mount, with silver summits twin,
Shines o'er the violet steep that Delphi clings unto.
Yonder a name, yonder a name, and yonder
A name to make the troubled blood beat fast
And the o'ertaken spirit ache with wonder:
Daphne, whose slope the spring-time revelers passed,
With Eleusinian Demeter to taste
The bread of resurrection; Sunion,
Glad shrine and pharos glad;
Hymettos and grape-dark Pentelicon;
And bright, O bright against their bronzen shade,
Athens, by time and ruin undismayed,
Lifting her solemn crown of temples to the sun.
A name to make the troubled blood beat fast
And the o'ertaken spirit ache with wonder:
Daphne, whose slope the spring-time revelers passed,
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The bread of resurrection; Sunion,
Glad shrine and pharos glad;
Hymettos and grape-dark Pentelicon;
And bright, O bright against their bronzen shade,
Athens, by time and ruin undismayed,
Lifting her solemn crown of temples to the sun.
Mountains and seas, cities and isles and capes,
All frail as dream and painted like a dream,
All swimming with the fairy light that drapes
A bubble, when the colors curl and stream
And meet and flee asunder. I could deem
This earth, this air, my dizzy soul, the sky,
Time, knowledge, and the gods
Were lapsing, curling, streaming lazily
Down a great bubble's rondure, dye on dye,
To swell the perilous clinging drop that nods,
Gathers, and nods, and clings, through all eternity.
All frail as dream and painted like a dream,
All swimming with the fairy light that drapes
A bubble, when the colors curl and stream
And meet and flee asunder. I could deem
This earth, this air, my dizzy soul, the sky,
Time, knowledge, and the gods
Were lapsing, curling, streaming lazily
Down a great bubble's rondure, dye on dye,
To swell the perilous clinging drop that nods,
Gathers, and nods, and clings, through all eternity.
We cry with drowsy lips how life is strange,
And shadowy hands pour for us while we speak
Old bowls of slumber, that the stars may range
And the gods walk unhowled-at.... To my cheek
This stone feels blessèd cool. My heart could break
Of its long searching and its finding not,
But that it has forgot
What 't was it searched, and how it failed thereof.
—O soft, ye flute-players! No temple dove
Be fluttered! Soft, sing soft, ye lyric girls,
Till the shrine portals ope and the blue smoke outcurls!
And shadowy hands pour for us while we speak
Old bowls of slumber, that the stars may range
And the gods walk unhowled-at.... To my cheek
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Of its long searching and its finding not,
But that it has forgot
What 't was it searched, and how it failed thereof.
—O soft, ye flute-players! No temple dove
Be fluttered! Soft, sing soft, ye lyric girls,
Till the shrine portals ope and the blue smoke outcurls!
Dance slowly, singing as if Pindar heard
And loved again this sweet fruit of his breast.
O let the strophe, like a smooth sea-bird,
Drift down the wave, and wheel again to rest
One long, long instant on the glittering crest.
Scare not the sacred peacock where he spreads
His fan upon the wall;
Let not a flower, let not a petal fall
From those fresh-woven garlands on your heads;
Dance delicately slow as yon light treads
From isle to isle: though late, love comes at last to all!
And loved again this sweet fruit of his breast.
O let the strophe, like a smooth sea-bird,
Drift down the wave, and wheel again to rest
One long, long instant on the glittering crest.
Scare not the sacred peacock where he spreads
His fan upon the wall;
Let not a flower, let not a petal fall
From those fresh-woven garlands on your heads;
Dance delicately slow as yon light treads
From isle to isle: though late, love comes at last to all!
And might it not be sweeter late than soon?
What though the western radiance flame and fail?
What though the ivory circle of the moon
Deepen to gold? What though the keen stars tell
Through Heaven's abysm their midnight and all's-well,
And still not yet the jealous doors unclose?
Despair not; these delays
We know are Paphian, and the waked thrush knows
Who from the grove chants love's heart-broken praise.
“Too late, too soon! Too soon, too late!” he says,
“O goddess, hear them now, before the sweet night goes!”
What though the western radiance flame and fail?
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Deepen to gold? What though the keen stars tell
Through Heaven's abysm their midnight and all's-well,
And still not yet the jealous doors unclose?
Despair not; these delays
We know are Paphian, and the waked thrush knows
Who from the grove chants love's heart-broken praise.
“Too late, too soon! Too soon, too late!” he says,
“O goddess, hear them now, before the sweet night goes!”
Aye, deeply heard! In Aphrodite's porch
Perfect of her the slumbering lovers lie,
And on the shrine steps where her saffron torch,
Lights their young bosoms when they turn and sigh,
And in the moonlit grove, and round the high
Plinth, where her fiery urns purpureal
Signal her native deep;
To these she giveth all things, even sleep.
But, rich, rich giver, hast thou given all?
Dost thou not some diviner secret keep
For me, though outland, though half-atheist in thy hall?
Perfect of her the slumbering lovers lie,
And on the shrine steps where her saffron torch,
Lights their young bosoms when they turn and sigh,
And in the moonlit grove, and round the high
Plinth, where her fiery urns purpureal
Signal her native deep;
To these she giveth all things, even sleep.
But, rich, rich giver, hast thou given all?
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For me, though outland, though half-atheist in thy hall?
—Shattered! And I awake. The prayer was rash.
Daylight is hardly touched with failure yet,
Though there a glowing headland drops to ash
And there a chanting island will forget
Its glory soon. The stones with dew are wet.
The moon sings up the world—or in my blood
Climbs it, the choiring peace?
What have I done, what suffered or withstood,
That all within me is so bright and good?
—Look, lo, the rainbow-colored pinions please
To settle! A moon-moth, by all my dreams it is!
Daylight is hardly touched with failure yet,
Though there a glowing headland drops to ash
And there a chanting island will forget
Its glory soon. The stones with dew are wet.
The moon sings up the world—or in my blood
Climbs it, the choiring peace?
What have I done, what suffered or withstood,
That all within me is so bright and good?
—Look, lo, the rainbow-colored pinions please
To settle! A moon-moth, by all my dreams it is!
Rich as a pulse a worshiped head rests on,
The glimmering vans that time the trembling life
Open and close above the moon-washed stone,
As if the fairy heart were fugitive,
As if it halted panting from a strife
Too large for its frail day. O missionary
Winds of the far and dear!
O elfin ship, why flap your gallants there?
My heart has many a brimming estuary
Where you can ease you from the endless air,
The ocean light you sailed to bring me news of her!
The glimmering vans that time the trembling life
Open and close above the moon-washed stone,
As if the fairy heart were fugitive,
As if it halted panting from a strife
Too large for its frail day. O missionary
Winds of the far and dear!
O elfin ship, why flap your gallants there?
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Where you can ease you from the endless air,
The ocean light you sailed to bring me news of her!
Our souls had risen from their second birth,
And were at peace within the land thereof;
With tears we trod there, and with careless mirth:
And sometimes on the bosom of my love,
Or on her lips or brow, or poised above
All palpitant and doubtful on her head,
A soft-winged splendor lit;
And I would say, “The Butterfly!” and sit
Loving it till it went. And once I said
“Hush, the Moon-Moth!” That evening we were wed
Anew, and we were glad as the uprisen dead.
And were at peace within the land thereof;
With tears we trod there, and with careless mirth:
And sometimes on the bosom of my love,
Or on her lips or brow, or poised above
All palpitant and doubtful on her head,
A soft-winged splendor lit;
And I would say, “The Butterfly!” and sit
Loving it till it went. And once I said
“Hush, the Moon-Moth!” That evening we were wed
Anew, and we were glad as the uprisen dead.
And now, what gladness ails thee now, my soul?
For all the desolate, all the wasted days
Nothing but strong delight? The lifted bowl,
The cones of ecstasy, the wands of praise,
Tossing delirious down the mountain ways
Of all that's forfeit, all that is foregone?
Triumphing through the seas,
And past the ghostly power that, leagued with these,
Did make as if the bolts of God were drawn
Between her life and me? And like a fawn
Thou 'lt dance there in the moon, where now the moon-moth flees?
For all the desolate, all the wasted days
Nothing but strong delight? The lifted bowl,
The cones of ecstasy, the wands of praise,
Tossing delirious down the mountain ways
Of all that's forfeit, all that is foregone?
Triumphing through the seas,
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Did make as if the bolts of God were drawn
Between her life and me? And like a fawn
Thou 'lt dance there in the moon, where now the moon-moth flees?
But whither, flame of pearl, vapor of pearl,
Breath and decantment of sea-buried gems
That with the foam-born Woman did upswirl
To wreathe their brightness round her breast and limbs
And give their color to the cup that dims
Earth's piercing cry to music,—whither now
Do the weighed wings intend?
Fawn heart of me, that with the upflung brow
Followest on, where will thy dances end?
O after many days! O let me bow,
Let me be risen lordly up! My love, my friend,
Breath and decantment of sea-buried gems
That with the foam-born Woman did upswirl
To wreathe their brightness round her breast and limbs
And give their color to the cup that dims
Earth's piercing cry to music,—whither now
Do the weighed wings intend?
Fawn heart of me, that with the upflung brow
Followest on, where will thy dances end?
O after many days! O let me bow,
Let me be risen lordly up! My love, my friend,
My wild one, my soul's need, my song of life!
Through the strange seas and past the ghostly powers
Safe come and sure, and like a festal wife,
Admonished of the seasons and the hours,
The time of times and the preparèd bowers!
Above thy brow floats like an influence
The moon-moth, our dear sign,
No plainer now than when these eyes of mine
In faith imagined and beheld it once,
As these thy hands to all my thirsting sense,
To lips and breast and brow, are palpable as then.
Through the strange seas and past the ghostly powers
Safe come and sure, and like a festal wife,
Admonished of the seasons and the hours,
The time of times and the preparèd bowers!
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The moon-moth, our dear sign,
No plainer now than when these eyes of mine
In faith imagined and beheld it once,
As these thy hands to all my thirsting sense,
To lips and breast and brow, are palpable as then.
More palpable, by that dark curtain wove
And hung between us for Earth's lie of lies!
Which these our meeting hands make nothing of
And this thy happy bending-down denies,
And these our clinging lips and closèd eyes
And mating breasts have never, never known
But for the cheat it was.
—Sigh not, love; tremble not! Be all at peace!
You will not go because the moth is flown?
—Gone, beyond passion's cry!—The moon-washed stone,
The sleeping weeds, the stars few over dreaming Greece.
And hung between us for Earth's lie of lies!
Which these our meeting hands make nothing of
And this thy happy bending-down denies,
And these our clinging lips and closèd eyes
And mating breasts have never, never known
But for the cheat it was.
—Sigh not, love; tremble not! Be all at peace!
You will not go because the moth is flown?
—Gone, beyond passion's cry!—The moon-washed stone,
The sleeping weeds, the stars few over dreaming Greece.
And my far country swims into the light.
The seaboard states are up, the prairies stay
But little longer now to make them bright.
Westward the burning bugles of the day
Are blowing strong across America.
New laws, new arts, new gods, new souls of men,
New hopes and charities!
Why do I traffic where no profit is,
Taking but one or two where they take ten
Who trade to their own shores, and back again
To their own shores? O my beloved! Who replies
The seaboard states are up, the prairies stay
But little longer now to make them bright.
Westward the burning bugles of the day
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New laws, new arts, new gods, new souls of men,
New hopes and charities!
Why do I traffic where no profit is,
Taking but one or two where they take ten
Who trade to their own shores, and back again
To their own shores? O my beloved! Who replies
But thou, fled heart, who cling'st here close and true!
For us the future was, the past will be,
And all the holy human years are new,
And all are tasted of eternally,
And still the eaten fruit shines on the tree.
—Let us go down. There, in that naked glen,
Bellerophon played the thief.
Much lower lies the well where the old men
Sat murmuring at Medea, and at their chief
Spoused to the witch. Love, we'll not grieve again,
We ne'er shall grieve again, not what we could call grief!
For us the future was, the past will be,
And all the holy human years are new,
And all are tasted of eternally,
And still the eaten fruit shines on the tree.
—Let us go down. There, in that naked glen,
Bellerophon played the thief.
Much lower lies the well where the old men
Sat murmuring at Medea, and at their chief
Spoused to the witch. Love, we'll not grieve again,
We ne'er shall grieve again, not what we could call grief!
| The Poems and Plays of William Vaughn Moody | |