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.HeliosHelios makes all things right:—night brands and chokesas if destruction brokeover furze and stone and cropof myrtle-shoot and field-wort,destroyed with flakes of iron,the bracken-stems,where tender roots were sown,blight, chaff and wasteof darkness to choke and drown.A curious god to find,yet in the end faithful;bitter, the Kyprian’s feet—ah flecks of whited clay,great hero, vaunted lord—ah petal, dust and wind-fallon the ground—queen awaiting queen.Better the weight, they tell,the helmet’s beaten shell,Athene’s riven steel,caught over the white skull,Athene sets to healthe few who merit it.Yet even then, what help,should he not turn and notethe height of forehead and the mark of conquest,draw near and try the helmet;to left—reset the crownAthene weighted down,or break with a light touchmayhap the steel set to protect;to slay or heal.A treacherous god, they say,yet who would wait to testjustice or worth or right,when through a fetid nightis wafted faint and nearer—then straight as point of steelto one who courts swift death,scent of Hesperidean orange-spray.Heliodora1924[Author’s] NoteThe poem Lais has in italics a translation of the Plato epigram in the Greek Anthology.Heliodora has in italics the two Meleager epigrams from the Anthology.In Nossis is the translation of the opening lines of the Garland of Meleager and the poem of Nossis herself in the Greek Anthology.The four Sappho fragments are re-worked freely.The Ion is a translation of the latter part of the first long choros of the Ion of Euripides.Wash of cold riverin a glacial land,Ionian water,chill, snow-ribbed sand,drift of rare flowers,clear, with delicate shell-like leaf enclosingfrozen lily-leaf,camellia texture,colder than a rose;wind-flowerthat keeps the breathof the north-wind—these and none other;intimate thoughts and kindreach out to sharethe treasure of my mind,intimate hands and deardrawn garden-ward and sea-wardall the sheer rapturethat I would taketo mould a clearand frigid statue;rare, of pure texture,beautiful space and line,marble to graceyour inaccessible shrine.Holy SatyrMost holy Satyr,like a goat,with horns and hoovesto match thy coatof russet brown,I make leaf-circletsand a crown of honey-flowersfor thy throat;where the amber petalsdrip to ivory,I cut and slipeach stiffened petalin the riftof carven petal;honey hornhas wed the brightvirgin petal of the whiteflower cluster: lip to liplet them whisper,let them lilt, quivering.Most holy Satyr,like a goat,hear this our song,accept our leaves,love-offering,return our hymn,like echo flinga sweet song,answering note for note.LaisLet her who walks in Paphostake the glass,let Paphos take the mirrorand the work of frosted fruit,gold apples setwith silver apple-leaf,white leaf of silverwrought with vein of gilt.Let Paphos lift the mirror,let her lookinto the polished centre of the disk.Let Paphos take the mirror;did she pressflowerlet of flame-flowerto the lustrous whiteof the white forehead?did the dark veins beata deeper purplethan the wine-deep tintof the dark flower?Did she deck black hairone evening, with the winter-whiteflower of the winter-berry,did she look (reft of her lover)at a face gone whiteunder the chapletof white virgin-breath?Lais, exultant, tyrannizing Greece,Lais who kept her lovers in the porch,lover on lover waiting,(but to creepwhere the robe brushed the thresholdwhere still sleeps Lais)so she creeps, Lais,to lay her mirror at the feetof her who reigns in Paphos.Lais has left her mirrorfor she sees no longer in its depththe Lais’ selfthat laughed exultanttyrannizing Greece [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]