Bewildered furrows deepen the Thunderer’s scowl; This world so vast, so variously foul— Who can have made its ugliness? In what Revolting fancy were the Forms begot Of all these monsters? What strange deity— So barbarously not a Greek!—was he Who could mismake such beings in his own Distorted image. Nay, the Greeks alone Were men; in Greece alone were bodies fair, Minds comely. In that all-but-island there, Cleaving the blue sea with its promontories, Lies the world’s hope, the seed of all the glories That are to be; there, too, must surely live She who alone can medicinably give Ease with her beauty to the Thunderer’s pain. Downwards he bends his fiery eyes again, Glaring on Hellas. Like a beam of light, His intent glances touch the mountain height With passing flame and probe the valleys deep, Rift the dense forest and the age-old sleep Of vaulted antres on whose pebbly floor Gallop the loud-hoofed Centaurs; and the roar Of more than human shouting underground Pulses in living palpable waves of sound From wall to wall, until it rumbles out Into the air; and at that hollow shout That seems an utterance of the whole vast hill, The shepherds cease their laughter and are still. Cities asleep under the noonday sky Stir at the passage of his burning eye; And in their huts the startled peasants blink At the swift flash that bursts through every chink Of wattled walls, hearkening in fearful wonder Through lengthened seconds for the crash of thunder— Which follows not: they are the more afraid. Jove seeks amain. Many a country maid, Whose sandalled feet pass down familiar ways Among the olives, but whose spirit strays Through lovelier lands of fancy, suddenly Starts broad awake out of her dream to see A light that is not of the sun, a light Darted by living eyes, consciously bright; She sees and feels it like a subtle flame Mantling her limbs with fear and maiden shame And strange desire. Longing and terrified, She hides her face, like a new-wedded bride Who feels rough hands that seize and hold her fast; And swooning falls. The terrible light has passed; She wakes; the sun still shines, the olive trees Tremble to whispering silver in the breeze And all is as it was, save she alone In whose dazed eyes this deathless light has shone: For never, never from this day forth will she In earth’s poor passion find felicity, Or love of mortal man. A god’s desire Has seared her soul; nought but the same strong fire Can kindle the dead ash to life again, And all her years will be a lonely pain.