II

O ye that know the fairy throng, And heed their secret under-song; In flower or leaf's still ecstasy Of birth and bud their passion see,

In wind or calm, in driving rain Or frozen snow discern them strain To utter and to be; who lie At dawn in dewy brakes to spy

The rapture of their flying feet — Follow me now those coursers fleet, Sucked in their wake, down ruining Through channelled night, where only sing

The shrill gusts streaming through the hair Of them who sway and bend them there, And peer in vain with shielded eyes To rend the dark. Clinging it lies,

Thick as wet gossamer that shrouds October brushwoods, or low clouds That from the mountain tops roll down Into the lowland vales, to drown

Men's voices and to choke their breath And make a silence like to death. But this was hot and dry; it came And smote them, like the gush of flame

Fanned in a smithy, that outpours And floods with fire the open doors. Downward their course was, swift as flight Of meteor flaring through the night,

Steady and dreadful, with no sound Of wheels or hoofs upon the ground, Nor jolt, nor jar; for once past through Earth's portals, steeds and chariot flew

On wings invisible and strong And even-oaring, such as throng The nights when birds of passage sweep O'er cities and the folk asleep:

Such was their awful flight. Afar Showed Hades glimmering like a star Seen red through fog: and as they sped To that, the frontiers of the dead

Revealed their sullen leagues and bare, And sad forms flitting here and there, Or clustered, waiting who might come Their empty ways with news of home.

Yet all one course at length must hold, Or late or soon, and all be tolled By Charon in his dark-prowed boat. Thither was swept the chariot

And crossed dry-wheeled the coiling flood Of Styx, and o'er the willow wood And slim gray poplars which do hem The further shore, Hell's diadem —

So by the tower foursquare and great Where King Aïdoneus keeps his state And rules his bodyless thralls they stand. Dark ridge and hollow showed the land

Fold over fold, like waves of soot Fixt in an anguish of pursuit For evermore, so far as eye Could range; and all was hot and dry

As furnace is which all about Etna scorcheth in days of drouth, And showeth dun and sinister That fair isle linked to main so fair.

Nor tree nor herbage grew, nor sang Water among the rocks: hard rang The heel on metal, or on crust Grew tender, or went soft in dust;

Neither for beast nor bird nor snake Was harbourage; nor could such slake Their thirst, nor from the bitter heat Hide, since the sun not furnished it;

But airless, shadowless and dense The land lay swooning, dead to sense Beneath that vault of stuprous black, Motionless hanging, without wrack

Of cloud to break and pass, nor rent To hint the blue. Like the foul tent A foul night makes, it sagged; for stars Showed hopeless faces, with two scars

In each, their eyes’ immortal woe, Ever to seek and never know: In all that still immensity These only moved — these and the sea,

Which dun and sullen heaved, with surge And swell unseen, save at the verge Where fainted off the black to gray And showed such light as on a day

Of sun's eclipse men tremble at. Here the dead people moved or sat, Casting no shadow, hailing none Boldly; but in fierce undertone

They plied each other, or on-sped Their way with signal of the head For answer, or arms desperate Flung up, or shrug disconsolate.

And this the quest of every one: “What hope have ye?” And answer, “None.” Never passed shadow shadow but That answer got to question put.

In that they lived, in that, alas! Lovely and hapless, Thou must pass Thy days, with this for added lot — Aching, to nurse things unforgot.

Remember'd joy, Hypsipyle! The Oread choir, the Oread glee: The nimble air of quickening hills, The sweet dawn light that floods and fills

The hollowed valleys; the dawn wind That bids the world wake, and on blind Eyelids of sleeping mortals lays Cool palms that urge them see and praise

The Day-God coming with the sun To hearten toil! He warned you run And hide your beauties deep in brake Of fern or briar, or reed of lake,

Or in wet crevice of the rock, There to abide until the clock You reckon by, with shadowy hands, Lay benediction on the lands

And landsmen, and the eve-jar's croak Summon ye, lightfoot fairy folk, To your activity full tide Over the empty earth and wide.

Here be your food, fair nymph, and coy Of mortal ken — remember'd joy! Remember'd joy! Ah, stormy nights, Ah, the mad revel when wind fights

With wind, and slantwise comes the rain And shatters at the window-pane, To wake the hind, who little knows Whose fingers drum those passionate blows,

Nor what swift indwellers of air Ye be who hide in forms so fair Your wayward motions, cruel to us, While lovely, and dispiteous!

Ah, nights of flying scud and rout When scared the slim young moon rides out In her lagoon of open sky, Or older, marks your revelry

As calm and large she oars above Your drifting lives of ruth or love. Boon were those nights of dusted gold And glint of fireflies! Boon the cold

And witching frost! All's one, all's one To thee, whose nights and days go on Now in one span of changeless dusk On one earth, crackling like the husk

Of the dropt mast in winter wood: Remember'd joy —‘ tis all thy food, Hypsipyle, to whose fond sprite I vow my praise while I have light.

Dumbly she wandered there, as pale With lack of light, with form as frail As those poor hollow congeners Whose searching eyes encountered hers,

Petitioning as mute as she Some grain of hope, where none might be, Daring not yet to voice their moan To her whose case was not their own;

For where they go like breath in a shell That wails, my love goes quick in Hell. Alas, for her, the sweet and slim! Slowly she pines; her eyes grow dim

With seeking; her smooth, sudden breasts Hang languidly; those little nests For kisses which her dimples were, In cheeks graved hollow now by care

Vanish, and sharply thrusts her chin, And sharp her bones of arm and shin. Reproach she looks, about, above, Denied her light, denied her love,

Denied for what she sacrificed, Doomed to be fruitless agonist. ( O God, and I must see her fade, Must see and anguish — in my shade! )

Nor help nor comfort gat she now From her whose need called forth her vow; For close in arms Queen Koré dwelt In that great tower Aïdoneus built

To cherish her; deep in his bed, Loved as the Gods love whom they wed; Turned from pale maiden to pale wife, Pale now with love's insatiate strife

First to appease, and then renew The wild desire to mingle two Natures, to long, to seek, to shun, To have, to give, to make two one

That must be two if they would each Learn all the lore that love can teach. So strove the mistress, while the maid Went alien among the dead,

Unspoken, speaking none, but watcht By them who knew themselves outmatcht By her, translated whole, nor guessed What miseries gnawed within that breast,

Which could be toucht, which could give meat To babe; which was not eye-deceit As theirs, poor phantoms. So went she Grudged but unscathed beside the sea,

Or sat alone by that sad strand Nursing her worn cheek in her hand; And did not mark, as day on day Lengthened the arch of changeless gray,

How she was shadowed, how to her Stretcht arms another prisoner; Nor knew herself desirable By any thankless guest of Hell —

Withal each phantom seemed no less Whole-natured to her heedlessness. Midway her round of solitude She used to haunt a dead sea-wood

Where among boulders lifeless trees Stuck rigid fingers to the breeze — That stream of faint hot air that flits Aimless at noon.‘ Tis there she sits

Hour after hour, and as a dove Croons when her breast is ripe for love, So sings this exile, quiet, sad chants Of love, yet knows not what she wants;

And singing there in undertone, Is one day answered by the moan Of hidden mourner; but no fear Hath she for sound so true, though near;

Nay, but sings out her elegy, Which, like an echo, answers he. Again she sings; he suits her mood, Nor breaks upon her solitude:

So she, choragus, calls the tune, And as she leads he follows soon. As bird with bird vies in the brake, She sings no note he will not take —

As when she pleads, “Ah, my lost love, The night is dark thou art not of,” Quick cometh answering the phrase, “O love, let all our nights be days!”

This, rapt, with beating heart, she heeds And follows, “Sweet love, my heart bleeds! Come, stay the wound thyself didst give”; Then he, “I come to bid thee live.”

And so they carol, and her heart Swells to believe his counterpart, And strophé striketh clear, which he Caps with his brave antistrophe;

And as a maiden waxes bold, And opens what should not be told When all her auditory she sees Within her mirror, so to trees

And rocks, and sullen sounding main She empties all her passioned pain; And “love, love, love,” her burden is, And “I am starving for thee,” his.

Moved, melted, all on fire she stands, Holding abroad her quivering hands, Raises her sweet eyes faint with tears And dares to seek him whom she hears;

And from her parted lips a sigh Stealeth, as knowing he is nigh And her fate on her — then she'd shun That which she seeks; but the thing's done.

Hollow-voiced, dim, spake her a shade, “O thou that comest, nymph or maid — If nymph, then maiden, since for aye Virgin is immortality,

Nor love can change what Death cannot — Look on me by love new-begot; Look on me, child new-born, nor start To see my form who knowest my heart;

For it is thine. O Mother and Wife, Take then my love — thou gavest it life!” So spake one close: to whom she lent The wonder of her eyes’ content —

That lucent gray, as if moonlight Shone through a sapphire in the night — And saw him faintly imaged, rare As wisp of cloud on hillside bare,

A filamental form, a wraith Shaped like that man who in the faith Of one puts all his hope: who stood Trembling in her near neighbourhood,

A thing of haunted eyes, of slim And youthful seeming; yet not dim, Yet not unmanly in his fashion Of speech, nor impotent of passion —

The which his tones gave earnest of And his aspéct of hopeless love; Who, drawing nearer, came to stand So close beside her that one hand

Lit on her shoulder — yet no touch She felt: “O maiden overmuch,” He grieved, “O body far too sweet For such as I, frail counterfeit

Of man, who yet was once a man, Cut off before the midmost span Of mortal life was but half run, Or ere to love he had found one

Like thee — yet happy in that fate, That waiting, he is fortunate: For better far in Hell to fare With thee than commerce otherwhere,

Sharing the snug and fat outlook Of bed and board and ingle-nook With earth-bound woman, earth-born child. Nay, but high love is free and wild

And centreth not in mortal things; But to the soul giveth he wings, And with the soul strikes partnership, So may two let corruption slip

And breasting level, with far eyes Lifted, seek haven in the skies, Untrammel'd by the earthly mesh. O thou,” said he, “of fairy flesh,

Immortal prisoner, take of me Love!‘ tis my heritage in fee; For I am very part thereof, And share the godhead.”

So his love Pled he with tones in love well-skilled Which on her bosom beat and thrilled, And pierced. No word nor look she had

To voice her heart, or sad or glad. Rapt stood she, wooed by eager word And by her need, whose cry she heard Above his crying; but she guessed

She was desired, beset, possessed Already, handfasted to sight, And yielding so, her heart she plight. Thus was her mating: of the eyes

And ears, and her love half surmise, Detected by her burning face Which saw, not felt, his fierce embrace. For on her own she knew no hand

When caging it he seemed to stand, And round her waist felt not the warm Sheltered peace of the belting arm She saw him clasp withal. When rained

His words upon her, or eyes strained As though her inmost shrine to pierce Where hid her heart of hearts, her ears Conceived, although her body sweet

Might never feel a young life beat And leap within it. Ah, what cry That mistress e'er heard poet sigh Could voice thy beauty? Or what chant

Of music be thy ministrant? Since thou art Music, poesy Must both thy spouse and increase be! In the hot dust, where lizards crouch

And pant, he made her bridal couch; Thither down drew her to his side And, phantom, taught her to be bride With words so ardent, looks so hot

She needs must feel what she had not, Guess herself in beleaguered bed And throb response. Thus she was wed. As she whom Zeus loved in a cloud,

So lay she in her lover's shroud, And o'er her members crept the chill We know when mist creeps up a hill Out of the vale at eve. As grows

The ivy, rooting as it goes, In such a quick close envelope She lay aswoon, nor guessed the scope Nor tether of his hot intent,

Nor what to that inert she lent, Save when at last with half-turned head And glimmering eyes, encompasséd She saw herself, a bride possest

By ghostly bridegroom, held and prest To unfelt bosom, saw his mouth Against her own, which to his drouth Gave no allay that she could sense,

Nor took of her sweet recompense. So moved by pity, stirred by rue, Out of their onslaught young love grew. Love that with delicate tongues of fire

Can kindle hearts inflamed desire In her for him who needed it; And so she claimed and by eyes’ wit Had what she would: and now made war,

Being, as all sweet women are, Prudes till Love calls them, and then fierce In love's high calling. Thus with her ears She fed on love, and to her eyes

Lent deeds of passionate emprise — Till at the last, the shadowy strife Ended, she owned herself all wife. High mating of the mind! O love,

Since this must be, on this she throve! Remember'd joy, Hypsipyle, Since this must be, O love, let be!