L E D A LEDA BROWN and bright as an agate, mountain-cool, Eurotas singing slips from pool to pool; Down rocky gullies; through the cavernous pines And chestnut groves; down where the terraced vines And gardens overhang; through valleys grey With olive trees, into a soundless bay Of the Ægean. Silent and asleep Lie those pools now: but where they dream most deep, Men sometimes see ripples of shining hair And the young grace of bodies pale and bare, Shimmering far down—the ghosts these mirrors hold Of all the beauty they beheld of old, White limbs and heavenly eyes and the hair’s river of gold, For once these banks were peopled: Spartan girls Loosed here their maiden girdles and their curls, And stooping o’er the level water stole His darling mirror from the sun through whole Rapturous hours of gazing. The first star Of all this milky constellation, far Lovelier than any nymph of wood or green, Was she whom Tyndarus had made his queen For her sheer beauty and subtly moving grace— Leda, the fairest of our mortal race. Hymen had lit his torches but one week About her bed (and still o’er her young cheek Passed rosy shadows of those thoughts that sped Across her mind, still virgin, still unwed, For all her body was her own no more), When Leda with her maidens to the shore Of bright Eurotas came, to escape the heat Of summer noon in waters coolly sweet. By a brown pool which opened smooth and clear Below the wrinkled water of a weir They sat them down under an old fir-tree To rest: and to the laughing melody Of their sweet speech the river’s rippling bore A liquid burden, while the sun did pour Pure colour out of heaven upon the earth. The meadows seethed with the incessant mirth Of grasshoppers, seen only when they flew Their curves of scarlet or sudden dazzling blue. Within the fir-tree’s round of unpierced shade The maidens sat with laughter and talk, or played, Gravely intent, their game of knuckle-bones; Or tossed from hand to hand the old dry cones Littered about the tree. And one did sing A ballad of some far-off Spartan king, Who took a wife, but left her, well-away! Slain by his foes upon their wedding-day. “That was a piteous story,” Leda sighed, “To be a widow ere she was a bride.” “Better,” said one, “to live a virgin life Alone, and never know the name of wife And bear the ugly burden of a child And have great pain by it. Let me live wild, A bird untamed by man!” “Nay,” cried another, “I would be wife, if I should not be mother. Cypris I honour; let the vulgar pay Their gross vows to Lucina when they pray. Our finer spirits would be blunted quite By bestial teeming; but Love’s rare delight Wings the rapt soul towards Olympus’ height.” “Delight?” cried Leda. “Love to me has brought Nothing but pain and a world of shameful thought.