With attributes of gods they sculptured him, Hermes, Osiris, but were never wise To lift the level, frowning brow of him Or dull the mortal misery in his eyes, The scornful weariness of every limb, The dust-begotten doubt that never dies, Antinous, beneath thy lids, though dim, The curling smoke of altars rose to thee, Conjuring thee to comfort and content. An emperor sent his galleys wide and far To seek thy healing for thee. Yea, and spent Honour and treasure and red fruits of war To lift thy heaviness, lest thou should’st mar The head that was an empire’s glory, bent A little, as the heavy poppies are. Did the perfection of thy beauty pain Thy limbs to bear it? Did it ache to be, As song hath ached in men, or passion vain? Or lay it like some heavy robe on thee? Was thy sick soul drawn from thee like the rain, Or drunk up as the dead are drunk each hour To feed the colour of some tulip flower? LONDON ROSES “Rowses, Rowses! Penny a bunch!” they tell you-- Slattern girls in Trafalgar, eager to sell you. Roses, roses, red in the Kensington sun, Holland Road, High Street, Bayswater, see you and smell you-- Roses of London town, red till the summer is done. Roses, roses, locust and lilac, perfuming West End, East End, wondrously budding and blooming Out of the black earth, rubbed in a million hands, Foot-trod, sweat-sour over and under, entombing Highways of darkness, deep gutted with iron bands. “Rowses, rowses! Penny a bunch!” they tell you, Ruddy blooms of corruption, see you and smell you, Born of stale earth, fallowed with squalor and tears-- North shire, south shire, none are like these, I tell you, Roses of London perfumed with a thousand years. WINTER AT DELPHI Cold are the stars of the night, Wild is the tempest crying, Fast through the velvet dark Little white flakes are flying. Still is the House of Song. But the fire on the hearth is burning; And the lamps are trimmed, and the cup Is full for his day of returning. His watchers are fallen asleep, They wait but his call to follow, Ay, to the ends of the earth-- But Apollo, the god, Apollo? Sick is the heart in my breast, Mine eyes are blinded with weeping; The god who never comes back, The watch that forever is keeping. Service of gods is hard; Deep lies the snow on my pillow. For him the laurel and song, Weeping for me and the willow: Empty my arms and cold As the nest forgot of the swallow; Birds will come back with the spring,-- But Apollo, the god, Apollo?