HYPSIPYLE

Queen of the shadows, Maid and Wife,

Twifold in essence, as in life,

The lamp of Death, the star of Birth,

Half cradled and half mourned by Earth,

By Hell half won, half lost! aid me

To sing thy fond Hypsipyle,

Thy bosom's mate who, unafraid,

Renounced for thee what part she had

In sun and wind upon the hill,

In dawn about the mere, in still

Woodlands, in kiss of lapping wave,

In laughter, in love — all this she gave!—

And shared thy dream-life, visited

The sunless country of the dead,

There to abide with thee, their Queen,

In that gray region, shadow-seen

By them that cast no shadows, yet

Themselves are shadows. Nor forget,

Koré, her love made manifest

To thee, familiar of her breast

And partner of her whispering mouth.

Thee too, Our Lady of the South,

Uranian Kypris, I invoke,

Regent of starry space, with stroke

Of splendid wing, in whose white wake

Stream those who, filled with thee, forsake

Their clinging shroudy clots, and rise,

Lover and loved, to thy pure skies,

To thy blue realm! O lady, touch

My lips with rue, for she loved much.

What poet in what cloistered nook,

Indenting in what roll of a book

His rhymes, can voice the tides of love?

Nay, thrilling lark, nay, moaning dove,

The nightingale's full-chargéd throat

That cheereth now, and now doth gloat,

And now recordeth bitter-sweet

Longing, too wise to image it:

These be your minstrels, lovers! Choose

From their winged choir your urgent Muse;

Let her your speechless joys relate

Which men with words sophisticate,

Striving by reasons make appear

To head what heart proclaims so clear

To heart; as if by wit to wis

What mouth to mouth tells in a kiss,

Or in their syllogisms dry

Freeze a swift glance's cogency.

Nay, but the heart's so music-fraught,

Music is all in love, words naught.

One heart's a rote, with music stored

Though mute; but two hearts make a chord

Of piercing music. One alone

Is nothing: two make the full tone.