The thin lines buckle, the black masses fly! _Imperator Romanus!_ No, Lucullus, But the good host who--plants his cherry-trees! Love? I have loved once, once.... That awful day We stormed in through the gates of Amisus.... The loot-mad soldiers, howling, smote the town Down in a mud of blood and dirt and wine, Bodies and gold and priceless tapestries. Half-mad I rushed to stop them, beat and struck; I think they would have murdered me at once, But that one drunkard yelled “The General! Lower your swords, lads! Sir, we won this town! You take your pleasures and let us take ours!” I reeled into the blackness of an arch, And saw before me, white-robed, laurel-crowned, Just such a maiden as might once have danced Along the friezes of the Parthenon; A face like that on an old silver coin, Demetrius sent me, clear-cut, beautiful With all the burning beauty of the Greek. Pure and serene her grey eyes gazed in mine.... We spoke few words; what need to speak at all When just our eyes told all we had to tell, There in the soft, cool blackness, splashed with light From the red pools of burning wine without? Few words. They chime like little silver bells Within my heart now, or like trumpet blasts Bear up my soul a little towards the gods. We had three years. She died before my fall. I thought of love as a crooked knife, As a soft and passionate lord; Born when the kings’ beards dipped in wine And the gold cups clashed on the board. But my love came like a blast of cold, A straight, clean, sword. I thought of love as a secret thing, For an hour of incensed ease, When breast and breast together cling, Under sweet-scented trees. My love is all good-comradeship, More great than these. I thought of love as a toy for a day, Soon to be over-passed; Light and frail as a hollow shell, That into the brook is cast. My love holds while the earth endures, And the suns stand fast. I thought of love as mixed with earth, One with the bloom of the sods. My love is air and wine and fire, Breaker of metes and rods, A slender javelin tipped with light, Hurled at the gods. Life lies before me like a platter of coins. “Here are the new ones! Mark the choice design!” All cry: for me the others fade and dim, And one alone shines clear, an old Greek coin Demetrius sent me ... and that lovely face.... Pompey would say that I am growing old, And Cicero would turn a phrase with me In his next great oration, as a type Of the old fool who mumbles of days past. Meanwhile I have my orchards--and my feasts. Those turbot now; the sauce is very good, A peacock’s breast is good, too, at this time, With other things, as----old Falernian, Tarentine oysters, and sweet wines from Thrace....