With bitterest tears or gifts of gratitude. From the pile heaped at Aphrodite’s feet The boy would take a leaf, and in his sweet, Clear voice would read what mortal tongues can tell In stammering verse of those ineffable Pleasures and pains of love, heaven and uttermost hell. Jove hidden stood and heard him read these lines Of votive thanks— Cypris, this little silver lamp to thee I dedicate. It was my fellow-watcher, shared with me Those swift, short hours, when raised above my fate In Sphenura’s white arms I drank Of immortality. “A pretty lamp, and I will have it placed Beside the narrow bed of some too chaste Sister of virgin Artemis, to be A night-long witness of her cruelty. Read me another, boy,” and Venus bent Her ear to listen to this short lament. Cypris, Cypris, I am betrayed! Under the same wide mantle laid I found them, faithless, shameless pair! Making love with tangled hair. “Alas,” the goddess cried, “nor god, nor man, Nor medicinable balm, nor magic can Cast out the demon jealousy, whose breath Withers the rose of life, save only time and death.” Another sheet he took and read again. Farewell to love, and hail the long, slow pain Of memory that backward turns to joy. O I have danced enough and enough sung; My feet shall be still now and my voice mute; Thine are these withered wreaths, this Lydian flute, Cypris; I once was young. And piêtous Aphrodite wept to think How fadingly upon death’s very brink Beauty and love take hands for one short kiss— And then the wreaths are dust, the bright-eyed bliss Perished, and the flute still. “Read on, read on.” But ere the page could start, a lightning shone Suddenly through the room, and they were ’ware Of some great terrible presence looming there. And it took shape—huge limbs, whose every line A symbol was of power and strength divine, And it was Jove. “Daughter, I come,” said he, “For counsel in a case that touches me Close, to the very life.” And he straightway Told her of all his restlessness that day And of his sight of Leda, and how great Was his desire. And so in close debate Sat the two gods, planning their rape; while she, Who was to be their victim, joyously Laughed like a child in the sudden breathless chill And splashed and swam, forgetting every ill And every fear and all, save only this: That she was young, and it was perfect bliss To be alive where suns so goldenly shine, And bees go drunk with fragrant honey-wine, And the cicadas sing from morn till night, And rivers run so cool and pure and bright . . . Stretched all her length, arms under head, she lay In the deep grass, while the sun kissed away The drops that sleeked her skin. Slender and fine As those old images of the gods that shine With smooth-worn silver, polished through the years