IRRUPTION

WELL-GREAVED Achaians; lordliest Atreides;

Great-hearted friendship, foes no lesser-hearted;

Murmur of leaves on distant Latmos; coo

Of doves on Thisbe; pasture-land of horses,

Argos! and thou, the windy-beached Enispe;

Achaian fleet on that unvintaged sea,

Vessels of bronze and scarlet, beaked with gold,

In great procession Troy-wards, ranging wide

Over wide waters, bearing mighty captains,

Sons of the gods, the fosterlings of Zeus,

Casters of spear and javelin, fleet-footed

Or wise in council, flowing-haired Achaians,

— This was my epic and my company.

For you, Tintagel pinnacled on rocks

Emerged from desolate chords, until your mood

Wearied of saga; melted to the dusk

Falling on Spanish cities, when the shutters

Open again on evening, and the flute

Of some stray passing goat-herd down the street

Pipes idly, or the strident gay guitar

Befriends the lover’ s whisper at the window;

For you sat playing, and your fingers roamed

To Russia, where the simple is the blessed,

And woke both melancholy pomp and folly,

And passed again to fantasy that is

Homeless, and shies away from thoughts of home.

I read; you played; we had no need of speech.

They came, noisy and shrill, well-meaning; they

Spoke to us first of wealth and then of love,

The love of others, negligently shrewd

And empty in their chatter. Then they spoke,

Wise and judicious, and we answered them,

Judicious likewise, flattering their mood.

But our eyes found each other, and we fell

Suddenly silent, caught in treachery,

Remembering that proud world wherein we dwelt erstwhile.