Hypsipyle

Queen of the shadows, Maid and Wife, Twifold in essence, as in life, The lamp of Death, the star of Birth, Half cradled and half mourned by Earth, By Hell half won, half lost! aid me To sing thy fond Hypsipyle, Thy bosom's mate who, unafraid, Renounced for thee what part she had In sun and wind upon the hill, In dawn about the mere, in still Woodlands, in kiss of lapping wave, In laughter, in love--all this she gave!-- And shared thy dream-life, visited The sunless country of the dead, There to abide with thee, their Queen, In that gray region, shadow-seen By them that cast no shadows, yet Themselves are shadows. Nor forget, Kore, her love made manifest To thee, familiar of her breast And partner of her whispering mouth.

Thee too, Our Lady of the South, Uranian Kypris, I invoke, Regent of starry space, with stroke Of splendid wing, in whose white wake Stream those who, filled with thee, forsake Their clinging shroudy clots, and rise, Lover and loved, to thy pure skies, To thy blue realm! O lady, touch My lips with rue, for she loved much.

What poet in what cloistered nook, Indenting in what roll of a book His rhymes, can voice the tides of love? Nay, thrilling lark, nay, moaning dove, The nightingale's full-charged throat That cheereth now, and now doth gloat, And now recordeth bitter-sweet Longing, too wise to image it: These be your minstrels, lovers! Choose From their winged choir your urgent Muse; Let her your speechless joys relate Which men with words sophisticate, Striving by reasons make appear To head what heart proclaims so clear To heart; as if by wit to wis What mouth to mouth tells in a kiss, Or in their syllogisms dry Freeze a swift glance's cogency. Nay, but the heart's so music-fraught, Music is all in love, words naught. One heart's a rote, with music stored Though mute; but two hearts make a chord Of piercing music. One alone Is nothing: two make the full tone.