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Hold still, my brain! My temples burst! Shall e'er] |
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 | The poems of Trumbull Stickney |  |
268
[XVII
Hold still, my brain! My temples burst! Shall e'er]
Hold still, my brain! My temples burst! Shall e'er
This marble burgeon with her? I can see
An Aphrodite, poised; a falling fold
About her loins,—and nothing more but sky,
Sky, sun, light, air, and rolling spheres, and men.
Where is my chisel?—Paros is an isle
Does make earth more magnificent than aught
Of conquest. I believe it 's the old heart
Of world and universe; were the quarry-slave
Ambitious, he should find below, far, far
Below, motion, life—and a regency
So splendid as would shrivel him to ash.
This marble burgeon with her? I can see
An Aphrodite, poised; a falling fold
About her loins,—and nothing more but sky,
Sky, sun, light, air, and rolling spheres, and men.
Where is my chisel?—Paros is an isle
Does make earth more magnificent than aught
Of conquest. I believe it 's the old heart
Of world and universe; were the quarry-slave
Ambitious, he should find below, far, far
Below, motion, life—and a regency
So splendid as would shrivel him to ash.
The splinters shine like gold! Away! Away,—
Somewhere within here she,—Apollo, help!
That I may bid her rise, and mix with stone
My Phryne with the never-opened eye,
The holy oval face, the rich long neck
And serious body and—Oh the arms! the arms!
My lips grow dull with kissing of her arms,
Dull, yes! and sad!
She shall be here eternally while I
Make her eternal. I shall bid her come,
Sit near, and say things in her golden Greek,
And singing freshen some old mythos with
Warm melody. I'll call her.—No! not yet!
Not yet! Despair's enough without herself
To make my heart at such comparison
Break. Memory first shall guide my hand,—
Memory made fresher by herself. Some eve
We'll mix our water and wine; we'll chaplets
Of ivy, sail for Athens, and in spring
Hear the great plays and drink at festivals
And run to some wild cry, some terrible
Sharp song, away, away; the spotted skin
Slips thro' the starlight; thyrsus at her throat
Lengthened, and head thrown wildly back to see
More rich the winy heaven dissolve and run!
Where is she? Phryne! Phryne! Look, my love,
Upon me and my marble. A snow more white
Ne'er fell; with the influence and love of years
We'll build an outline, thou and I, or thou
Rather, that verily my lips and breast
Will shudder but believe. Ah come away!
We'll go and hear the music of the sea
And pity the old singer; watch the moon,
Sad harmonist on the unresponsive earth;
Feel the far stars,—yet hear and watch and feel
Nothing but thee, thou jewel of my soul!
Somewhere within here she,—Apollo, help!
That I may bid her rise, and mix with stone
My Phryne with the never-opened eye,
The holy oval face, the rich long neck
And serious body and—Oh the arms! the arms!
My lips grow dull with kissing of her arms,
Dull, yes! and sad!
She shall be here eternally while I
Make her eternal. I shall bid her come,
Sit near, and say things in her golden Greek,
And singing freshen some old mythos with
Warm melody. I'll call her.—No! not yet!
269
To make my heart at such comparison
Break. Memory first shall guide my hand,—
Memory made fresher by herself. Some eve
We'll mix our water and wine; we'll chaplets
Of ivy, sail for Athens, and in spring
Hear the great plays and drink at festivals
And run to some wild cry, some terrible
Sharp song, away, away; the spotted skin
Slips thro' the starlight; thyrsus at her throat
Lengthened, and head thrown wildly back to see
More rich the winy heaven dissolve and run!
Where is she? Phryne! Phryne! Look, my love,
Upon me and my marble. A snow more white
Ne'er fell; with the influence and love of years
We'll build an outline, thou and I, or thou
Rather, that verily my lips and breast
Will shudder but believe. Ah come away!
We'll go and hear the music of the sea
And pity the old singer; watch the moon,
Sad harmonist on the unresponsive earth;
Feel the far stars,—yet hear and watch and feel
Nothing but thee, thou jewel of my soul!
[1895–96]
| The poems of Trumbull Stickney | |