Endymion
To-night I came here early, O Selene — —
much too early for one no longer a lover — —
came here only to wait for you.
I sat alone — —
gladly no longer a lover, though often of a moonlight night I lie
exposed to your rident leer, a Latmian clown. To-night I waited long — —
too long, if I dare say so, O Selene — —
ready to peer out, eastward, through the crowd of languid sycamore leaves,
and striving all the while to peer, but failing, for the world was black,
save for the flash of the fireflies, and the ether black, too,
save for the glimmer of the stars.
I sat alone,
straining the diversional ear for a corybantian shrilling, remote,
resounding from the black hills. There was now the bugling of a bull, far off — —
the call of a lover who refused to sleep. In the boscage by the river
there was another sleepless lover, the whippoorwill, and in the dooryard pines another,
the mocking bird. The night was alive with sleepless lovers. Your lover only, O Selene,
slept. Had I not known that he would sleep forever, afar, on Latmus,
I should have thought that I heard him hunting, for, not long before you appeared,
I heard a horn and many a baying hound. Had I not known that you would never again
grace the sport of Endymion with the look of love. I should have thought
that you were loitering over the chase. I sat here waiting for you, wondering
if you sustained the rident leer when Zeus decreed the fate of your lover. I sat here wondering
if you only assumed the rident leer as a haughty mask for repressed woe. I sat here wondering
if you, you even, were forced to find for yourself the ultimate smile of love, and found it only
after long waiting — —
after long weeping — —
by the side of the lover doomed to eternal sleep.
I sat here thus — —
too long, if I may say so, much too long — —
wondering if you, you even, were living the lie of love, when suddenly
there played along the lurking clouds an ascending gleam from the wide eyes
of your mounting mares. Now the alert beasts
pranced up over the obfuscate hills, the luminous gloss of their groomed bodies
flaring serenely in the faces of the stars,
as if to warn the stars to draw back, and all alike to make way
for you. For now you rose up rapturously, facing intently west-ward — —
riding obliviously onward, the hoofs of your mares, phantasmally muffled,
making no sound among dreams of sound, but then and there inspiring
a spreading hush that ran before you, even to Latmus. O Selene — —
O serene goddess of the rident leer — —
O mature goddess of the disenchanted — —
there was great noise in the town to-night, a festive uproar of the insolently puerile,
the aggressively innocent, the obtrusively ingenuous, the lewdly chaste — —
a veritable fugue of tedium, with organpoint of raucous cooing,
and with rampant nuance of inane tittering. I left the noise behind me.
I came back home to find repose in the ripe amusement of your smile.
But I heard all over again the inane tittering, now from the sycamore leaves — —
young leaves, trifling leaves, who have not yet known the wrath of Zeus,
and have never heard sly Zephyrus utter other than a murmur.
Just before you appeared in the black east, flushed, but not blushing,
Zephyrus darted past, or rather stole past swiftly, stealthily — —
sidled amongst the leaves, and surprised them, even though they waited for him.
I heard him speak to the leaves. There was now a rustling, a chattering, a gossiping.
First a gasping — —
" Hail, our Zephyrus. "
Now the chattering — —
" Here comes the goddess with the sleeping lover.
Deep in a Latmian cave her lover sleeps.
Forever and forever her lover sleeps. "
Now the gossiping — —
" He is young, is younger than she — —
as young as when she kissed him to sleep.
His flesh is that of a virile lover, firm, calid, fervid.
His breath is forever warm, redolent, calm, assured, the breath of a masterful lover.
His body is lithe, graceful, unblemished.
His face is unbearded, and forever shall be.
His tousled hair is wavy, glossy, the hair of a handsome lover.
The parted lips that once returned her murmurs, her kisses, are sensuous, moist — —
are silent now, and forever shall be.
The thighs that shall never again grow tense, are vigorous, nervous, puissant, heroic.
The breasts once throbbing to those of Selene, are broad, massive, incitive, responsive — —
are impassive now, and forever shall be.
The arms once reaching out to Selene, are sensitive, restless, emotional, mighty — —
are powerless now, and forever shall be.
For none of us an Endymion.
What should one do with a sleeping lover? "
Yet a whispering — —
" More, O Zephyrus. "
And a sighing — —
" More of the lover doomed to eternal sleep. "
Are there among them those who even now
would go to Latmus if they knew the way?
Perchance.
But I was about to speak to the leaves, to say with a laugh — —
" Do you know the meaning of her smile? "
I should have added, amusedly — —
" Let me ask you if you know your Zephyrus.
Let me tell you what I have heard about your suave informer.
He is called an insidious cad.
He is called a treacherous friend.
Just now he utters the dulcet word, the mellifluous phrase;
but I have heard that he utters hoarsely, with curse, with reproach, with vilification — —
with reviling jeer,
with vicious hiss,
with harrowing shriek of destructive rage, direful, deafening,
deadening even the thunder of Zeus. "
I should have said these things, all these;
but there would have been a vulgar laugh — —
a laugh that only youth could utter — —
another noise to disturb the night.
With a sniggering — —
" Hear him, Zephyrus. "
With a sneering — —
" He talks like some one now no longer a lover.
He talks like one who would better be asleep. "
I should have said — —
" I have heard that leaves have existed before you, have tittered at Selene — —
encouraged by your suave informer.
I have heard that all have withered, and have died, all, to be scattered about, many before the day of the wither — —
scattered about by your suave informer.
I have heard that trees themselves have perished — —
prostrated by your suave informer.
I have heard these things and more.
But let me tell you what I have seen.
I have seen Selene smile through limbs all bare of leaves, your mothering limbs,
many living in dreams of such as you, but many dead — —
dismembered by your suave informer. "
I should have said these things, all these;
but I should have made a needless noise — —
another noise to disturb the night,
and have roused the scorn of the sycamore leaves.
To a muttering — —
" What care we? "
To a slurring — —
" Is he a fool who never heard of Latmus?
Is he a beast whose love will never sleep? "
I should have said — —
" In time there will be no tittering,
but now a shuddering, now a trembling,
now a clamoring of timorous voices,
now a shrieking, now a wailing,
ever hopeless, ever deafening,
deadening even the much changed voice of your present suave informer.
After a while there will come Selene, smiling. Selene will not gloat — —
but nevertheless will smile, through naked limbs that live without you. "
I should have said these things, all these;
but there would have been a loud retort — —
a needless noise, disturbing the night.
With a taunting — —
" And are you jealous of him asleep on Latmus? "
With a chuckling — —
" Or do you know too much remorse to sleep? "
I should have said these things, all these and more.
But you were smiling down. I scorned all words.
I scorned my very thoughts, all officious,
all sacrilegious in their lowly way — —
all needless in the presence of your smile.
Then, too, the sighing of the silly leaves
asking for more about Endymion,
now quickly lulled all tedium to sleep.
Now the whispering — —
" More, O Zephyrus. "
Now the sighing — —
" More of the lover doomed to eternal sleep. "
There was a sudden quieting, with now and then a rustling of the more inane, the inanely restive, the tolerantly mute — —
none able to be tolerantly still, and to hear, without squirming, the lore of a sleeping lover,
or to suffer your ascendant smile, without turning to glance, without whispering to another,
or to Zephyrus, himself restive, and offering here and there a lustful arm.
There now sounded the voice of Zephyrus, low, languorous, charmingly repressed, though vibrant with a tremor of restive hate — —
the tremor at times elusive, but the tone sustained. Zephyrus murmured — —
" Only too well I know the sight of the lover asleep in the cave on Latmus.
Only too well I know the lost Æolian. Only too well I loved him as a boy.
Only too well I know his fate in the hands of Selene, the frigidly wicked, the serenely lovely — —
for surely she is lovely, but equally wicked, serenely wicked, immutably serene.
And there is the cave itself, its mouth covered over with a huge harp, a gift from Euterpe,
which, whenever Selene departs, assumes the form of a grape vine, an overgrowing entanglement
to be drawn aside by Dryades, whenever the goddess returns, that she may enter,
only to spring into place behind her, as parchment strings, taut, sensitive, responsive,
ever to be played by the winds, by us, unwilling subjects of old Æolus — —
played as a duty, played by all, or rather by all save me, the privileged.
I have always been the favorite of the tyrant of Strongyle.
At times I play, and as none of the other winds can ever hope to play,
but I play for a reason all my own. I make Endymion murmur as he sleeps.
I am the favorite. I utter the dulcet word, the mellifluous phrase.
I am ever careful to do so in the presence of the king.
I move about with courtly grace. It is better thus to speak and act.
But afar from court I do as I please. The king never believes those who accuse me.
I was the only wind to escape the bag of the heroes. I laugh. I laugh.
I hate braggarts. But for more than a year the carousing heroes loitered about at court, bragging,
filling the ears of the generous, gullible king, with tales of lust and conquest.
When at length, destitute, desperate, they announced their departure from Strongyle.
Æolus called the winds together, called them all save me, the favorite.
Æolus put the winds in a bag and gave the bag to besotted Odysseus.
Æolus now commanded me to blow the heroes gently homeward.
I obeyed. But I soon tired of blowing heroes, or blowing these,
who continued to brag, priding themselves on their standing with the king.
I met Nemesis during the voyage. I told her all. She smiled.
She looked about. She saw Odysseus drunk, asleep at the helm. She pondered.
She saw the other heroes playing at knucklebones, playing madly.
She saw that many were penniless, were lingering nearby, out of the game.
She tickled a certain penniless gamester with thoughts of the bag containing the winds.
He wondered what the bag contained, if perchance treasure. He considered.
He whispered to other gamesters out of the game. They ripped the bag open.
The winds rushed out, shrieked, raved, blew the heroes back to the distant Æoliae, but Æolus
drove the heroes off, with lordly scorn, with curses. I laugh. I laugh.
I am the favorite. I utter the dulcet word, the mellifluous phrase.
I am ever careful to do so in the presence of the king.
Endymion was less wise. His words were unpolitic, rash, uncourteous.
He was the favorite of his own king. But he was banished. He left Thessalia.
He came to Hellas with many followers. I met him with the scent of flowers.
In Hellas he matured to the full. There he began to look like a god.
It was there that he fell in love with Selene, who appeared to him one night, naked,
bold, paler than ever, but sensually pale, with the pallor of white heat,
her mature form voluptuously rounded, majestically heightened, her flesh translucent, irradiant,
glowing against an ethereal clarity chosen as darkening contrast, daringly chosen — —
herself serenely supreme, with glowering equals all looking lesser beside her.
She won Endymion. She held his love. She whispered in the ear of Zeus,
before she openly asked of Zeus that her lover might live forever.
All that she wanted of him was his flesh, that she might make it hers forever.
It is hers. A great cave hollows, fashioned by Chronos, who, old, and old in vileness,
doddering and yet lustful, susceptible to wheedling, falsely austere,
turned kindly at the touch of Selene, capriciously thus, moonstruck,
and made a chamber in the side of Latmus, where Endymion now reposes — —
a chamber adorned and eventually made magnificent, sumptuous, by Selene.
It is a spacious chamber, hidden from Helios, and thus forever dark,
save when Selene enters, lighting it, flooding it with the flare of her white heat.
It is a quiet place, with only the sound of the lover breathing, sometimes murmuring,
or of Selene cooing, gasping, or chanting to the sound of the harp.
The ceilings are cedar. The massive rafters are inlaid with silver frets, and supported
by Parian caryatides, titanic, bowed as with somnolescence, and separating
many metopes, one from another, Dionysian rout from corybantian whirl, the feet of the caryatides
bracing against a Parian floor at the center of which there spreads a mosaic, a Lesbian scene
designed in lapis lazuli, with border of anthemion. Against one wall,
between two caryatides, and hiding the lower part of a metope, Pan, squatting, perchance to rest,
there stands an ebony bed upholstered in celestial blue, draped thus, and elevated
on a rise of two broad steps of solid cedar, the lifts of which are inlaid with ivory. On this bed
Endymion lies, his flesh displayed, his head resting in a silver crescent upholstered in the same celestial blue.
The hair of the lover is much like red gold finely shredded, and curled in the shredding,
the crinkly refuse dusted over the body, at spots thickly, as, for example, at the breast — —
at spots bristling, and everywhere glistening, bright against flesh of Parian pallor, flesh delicately tinted, warm,
and sometimes hot as Parian chiseling, masterly chiseling, graced by the gaze of Helios.
I often go to the cave when Selene is absent, if only to listen there,
now to the breathing of the lost Æolian, or to his murmurings, which, at times,
burst with the name of Hera, plaintively, wildly, hoarsely, despairfully,
and many times in succession, the last time with a wail. I laugh. I laugh.
He once uttered the name in the presence of Selene, who, at that moment
was bending over him, sighing, gloating, ready to kiss the murmuring lips.
The goddess trembled, but quickly sealed the lips with her trembling fingers,
and sank down by her lover, her head pressing at his, her eyes alight with a subtle smile.
When other winds are uninspired, or tardy, or weary with long playing,
I enter the cave through the taut strings, as I alone can enter — —
moving as I alone can move, and rousing the strings to response
that makes Endymion writhe, makes him utter the name of Hera.
There Endymion lies, and thus, lost to his own flesh forever.
There Selene goes, and thus, to flesh that shall never be lost to her.
There she waits for hours beside her lover, motionless, mute — —
now gazing on him as if to count his hairs to the shortest, the last,
or now bending over him, passing her hands along his arms, his thighs,
and kissing the lips that whisper of her or murmur the name of Hera.
I must go. For Boreas plays to-night, and his fingers are cold and damp, like his breath — —
which often breaks the gut. He is unmusical, moreover — —
despite the fact that he is temperamental and often plays inspiredly.
I shall relieve him at the harp for a while. I shall make Endymion utter the name of Hera.
I heard no more from Zephyrus. He abandoned the leaves, left them slyly — —
fled forgetfully. But the young leaves, motionless, mute,
spellbound by the lore of the lover doomed to eternal sleep, let pass unnoticed
the departure of their suave informer. Not one leaf
aroused from its dream of the lover doomed to sleep forever,
until it awoke with all the others, to the presence of Eurus.
For Eurus came — —
came as he always comes, with an air of patronizing sadness,
drawing about himself as he came a soft but somber fabric,
a lachrymal robe,
and having come,
he spoke in strained and lofty tones to the sycamore leaves, who responded
loftily, all. I heard them soon in a flutter of anger. I heard them later
whimpering lightly over the thought of a lover doomed to eternal sleep. I hear them now
cooing to Eurus as once to Zephyrus — —
laughing at lovers who fall asleep.
I sit here now — —
too late, if I must say so, much too late — —
sit here while the trailing robe of Eurus drags its darkening folds
portentously, over a springtime that has laughed too long, the laughter
already ringing with autumnal hardness. O Selene, I sit here now — —
too wistfully for one no longer a lover — —
sit here only to watch you as you disappear in the Latmian gloom. I sit here wakefully through the night — —
too wide awake for one no longer a lover — —
sit here straining the amorous ear for a fugitive thud
from the hoofs of your disappearing mares, for a fugitive snore
from the nostrils of your sleeping lover. I hear instead
the voices of lovers who will not sleep.
I hear the mocking bird in the pines.
I hear the whippoorwill in the boscage.
I hear the bull, bugling, bugling. O Selene — —
Taurus would rather die than be doomed to eternal sleep.
I sit here sleeplessly — —
foolishly, though, for one no longer a lover — —
sit here with an air of patronizing sadness, wondering
if you sustained the rident leer when Zeus decreed the fate of your lover. I sit here wondering
if then you only assumed the rident leer as a haughty mask for woe. I shall always wonder
if you were forced to find for yourself the ultimate smile of love, but found it only
after long waiting — —
after long weeping — —
by the side of the lover doomed to eternal sleep.
much too early for one no longer a lover — —
came here only to wait for you.
I sat alone — —
gladly no longer a lover, though often of a moonlight night I lie
exposed to your rident leer, a Latmian clown. To-night I waited long — —
too long, if I dare say so, O Selene — —
ready to peer out, eastward, through the crowd of languid sycamore leaves,
and striving all the while to peer, but failing, for the world was black,
save for the flash of the fireflies, and the ether black, too,
save for the glimmer of the stars.
I sat alone,
straining the diversional ear for a corybantian shrilling, remote,
resounding from the black hills. There was now the bugling of a bull, far off — —
the call of a lover who refused to sleep. In the boscage by the river
there was another sleepless lover, the whippoorwill, and in the dooryard pines another,
the mocking bird. The night was alive with sleepless lovers. Your lover only, O Selene,
slept. Had I not known that he would sleep forever, afar, on Latmus,
I should have thought that I heard him hunting, for, not long before you appeared,
I heard a horn and many a baying hound. Had I not known that you would never again
grace the sport of Endymion with the look of love. I should have thought
that you were loitering over the chase. I sat here waiting for you, wondering
if you sustained the rident leer when Zeus decreed the fate of your lover. I sat here wondering
if you only assumed the rident leer as a haughty mask for repressed woe. I sat here wondering
if you, you even, were forced to find for yourself the ultimate smile of love, and found it only
after long waiting — —
after long weeping — —
by the side of the lover doomed to eternal sleep.
I sat here thus — —
too long, if I may say so, much too long — —
wondering if you, you even, were living the lie of love, when suddenly
there played along the lurking clouds an ascending gleam from the wide eyes
of your mounting mares. Now the alert beasts
pranced up over the obfuscate hills, the luminous gloss of their groomed bodies
flaring serenely in the faces of the stars,
as if to warn the stars to draw back, and all alike to make way
for you. For now you rose up rapturously, facing intently west-ward — —
riding obliviously onward, the hoofs of your mares, phantasmally muffled,
making no sound among dreams of sound, but then and there inspiring
a spreading hush that ran before you, even to Latmus. O Selene — —
O serene goddess of the rident leer — —
O mature goddess of the disenchanted — —
there was great noise in the town to-night, a festive uproar of the insolently puerile,
the aggressively innocent, the obtrusively ingenuous, the lewdly chaste — —
a veritable fugue of tedium, with organpoint of raucous cooing,
and with rampant nuance of inane tittering. I left the noise behind me.
I came back home to find repose in the ripe amusement of your smile.
But I heard all over again the inane tittering, now from the sycamore leaves — —
young leaves, trifling leaves, who have not yet known the wrath of Zeus,
and have never heard sly Zephyrus utter other than a murmur.
Just before you appeared in the black east, flushed, but not blushing,
Zephyrus darted past, or rather stole past swiftly, stealthily — —
sidled amongst the leaves, and surprised them, even though they waited for him.
I heard him speak to the leaves. There was now a rustling, a chattering, a gossiping.
First a gasping — —
" Hail, our Zephyrus. "
Now the chattering — —
" Here comes the goddess with the sleeping lover.
Deep in a Latmian cave her lover sleeps.
Forever and forever her lover sleeps. "
Now the gossiping — —
" He is young, is younger than she — —
as young as when she kissed him to sleep.
His flesh is that of a virile lover, firm, calid, fervid.
His breath is forever warm, redolent, calm, assured, the breath of a masterful lover.
His body is lithe, graceful, unblemished.
His face is unbearded, and forever shall be.
His tousled hair is wavy, glossy, the hair of a handsome lover.
The parted lips that once returned her murmurs, her kisses, are sensuous, moist — —
are silent now, and forever shall be.
The thighs that shall never again grow tense, are vigorous, nervous, puissant, heroic.
The breasts once throbbing to those of Selene, are broad, massive, incitive, responsive — —
are impassive now, and forever shall be.
The arms once reaching out to Selene, are sensitive, restless, emotional, mighty — —
are powerless now, and forever shall be.
For none of us an Endymion.
What should one do with a sleeping lover? "
Yet a whispering — —
" More, O Zephyrus. "
And a sighing — —
" More of the lover doomed to eternal sleep. "
Are there among them those who even now
would go to Latmus if they knew the way?
Perchance.
But I was about to speak to the leaves, to say with a laugh — —
" Do you know the meaning of her smile? "
I should have added, amusedly — —
" Let me ask you if you know your Zephyrus.
Let me tell you what I have heard about your suave informer.
He is called an insidious cad.
He is called a treacherous friend.
Just now he utters the dulcet word, the mellifluous phrase;
but I have heard that he utters hoarsely, with curse, with reproach, with vilification — —
with reviling jeer,
with vicious hiss,
with harrowing shriek of destructive rage, direful, deafening,
deadening even the thunder of Zeus. "
I should have said these things, all these;
but there would have been a vulgar laugh — —
a laugh that only youth could utter — —
another noise to disturb the night.
With a sniggering — —
" Hear him, Zephyrus. "
With a sneering — —
" He talks like some one now no longer a lover.
He talks like one who would better be asleep. "
I should have said — —
" I have heard that leaves have existed before you, have tittered at Selene — —
encouraged by your suave informer.
I have heard that all have withered, and have died, all, to be scattered about, many before the day of the wither — —
scattered about by your suave informer.
I have heard that trees themselves have perished — —
prostrated by your suave informer.
I have heard these things and more.
But let me tell you what I have seen.
I have seen Selene smile through limbs all bare of leaves, your mothering limbs,
many living in dreams of such as you, but many dead — —
dismembered by your suave informer. "
I should have said these things, all these;
but I should have made a needless noise — —
another noise to disturb the night,
and have roused the scorn of the sycamore leaves.
To a muttering — —
" What care we? "
To a slurring — —
" Is he a fool who never heard of Latmus?
Is he a beast whose love will never sleep? "
I should have said — —
" In time there will be no tittering,
but now a shuddering, now a trembling,
now a clamoring of timorous voices,
now a shrieking, now a wailing,
ever hopeless, ever deafening,
deadening even the much changed voice of your present suave informer.
After a while there will come Selene, smiling. Selene will not gloat — —
but nevertheless will smile, through naked limbs that live without you. "
I should have said these things, all these;
but there would have been a loud retort — —
a needless noise, disturbing the night.
With a taunting — —
" And are you jealous of him asleep on Latmus? "
With a chuckling — —
" Or do you know too much remorse to sleep? "
I should have said these things, all these and more.
But you were smiling down. I scorned all words.
I scorned my very thoughts, all officious,
all sacrilegious in their lowly way — —
all needless in the presence of your smile.
Then, too, the sighing of the silly leaves
asking for more about Endymion,
now quickly lulled all tedium to sleep.
Now the whispering — —
" More, O Zephyrus. "
Now the sighing — —
" More of the lover doomed to eternal sleep. "
There was a sudden quieting, with now and then a rustling of the more inane, the inanely restive, the tolerantly mute — —
none able to be tolerantly still, and to hear, without squirming, the lore of a sleeping lover,
or to suffer your ascendant smile, without turning to glance, without whispering to another,
or to Zephyrus, himself restive, and offering here and there a lustful arm.
There now sounded the voice of Zephyrus, low, languorous, charmingly repressed, though vibrant with a tremor of restive hate — —
the tremor at times elusive, but the tone sustained. Zephyrus murmured — —
" Only too well I know the sight of the lover asleep in the cave on Latmus.
Only too well I know the lost Æolian. Only too well I loved him as a boy.
Only too well I know his fate in the hands of Selene, the frigidly wicked, the serenely lovely — —
for surely she is lovely, but equally wicked, serenely wicked, immutably serene.
And there is the cave itself, its mouth covered over with a huge harp, a gift from Euterpe,
which, whenever Selene departs, assumes the form of a grape vine, an overgrowing entanglement
to be drawn aside by Dryades, whenever the goddess returns, that she may enter,
only to spring into place behind her, as parchment strings, taut, sensitive, responsive,
ever to be played by the winds, by us, unwilling subjects of old Æolus — —
played as a duty, played by all, or rather by all save me, the privileged.
I have always been the favorite of the tyrant of Strongyle.
At times I play, and as none of the other winds can ever hope to play,
but I play for a reason all my own. I make Endymion murmur as he sleeps.
I am the favorite. I utter the dulcet word, the mellifluous phrase.
I am ever careful to do so in the presence of the king.
I move about with courtly grace. It is better thus to speak and act.
But afar from court I do as I please. The king never believes those who accuse me.
I was the only wind to escape the bag of the heroes. I laugh. I laugh.
I hate braggarts. But for more than a year the carousing heroes loitered about at court, bragging,
filling the ears of the generous, gullible king, with tales of lust and conquest.
When at length, destitute, desperate, they announced their departure from Strongyle.
Æolus called the winds together, called them all save me, the favorite.
Æolus put the winds in a bag and gave the bag to besotted Odysseus.
Æolus now commanded me to blow the heroes gently homeward.
I obeyed. But I soon tired of blowing heroes, or blowing these,
who continued to brag, priding themselves on their standing with the king.
I met Nemesis during the voyage. I told her all. She smiled.
She looked about. She saw Odysseus drunk, asleep at the helm. She pondered.
She saw the other heroes playing at knucklebones, playing madly.
She saw that many were penniless, were lingering nearby, out of the game.
She tickled a certain penniless gamester with thoughts of the bag containing the winds.
He wondered what the bag contained, if perchance treasure. He considered.
He whispered to other gamesters out of the game. They ripped the bag open.
The winds rushed out, shrieked, raved, blew the heroes back to the distant Æoliae, but Æolus
drove the heroes off, with lordly scorn, with curses. I laugh. I laugh.
I am the favorite. I utter the dulcet word, the mellifluous phrase.
I am ever careful to do so in the presence of the king.
Endymion was less wise. His words were unpolitic, rash, uncourteous.
He was the favorite of his own king. But he was banished. He left Thessalia.
He came to Hellas with many followers. I met him with the scent of flowers.
In Hellas he matured to the full. There he began to look like a god.
It was there that he fell in love with Selene, who appeared to him one night, naked,
bold, paler than ever, but sensually pale, with the pallor of white heat,
her mature form voluptuously rounded, majestically heightened, her flesh translucent, irradiant,
glowing against an ethereal clarity chosen as darkening contrast, daringly chosen — —
herself serenely supreme, with glowering equals all looking lesser beside her.
She won Endymion. She held his love. She whispered in the ear of Zeus,
before she openly asked of Zeus that her lover might live forever.
All that she wanted of him was his flesh, that she might make it hers forever.
It is hers. A great cave hollows, fashioned by Chronos, who, old, and old in vileness,
doddering and yet lustful, susceptible to wheedling, falsely austere,
turned kindly at the touch of Selene, capriciously thus, moonstruck,
and made a chamber in the side of Latmus, where Endymion now reposes — —
a chamber adorned and eventually made magnificent, sumptuous, by Selene.
It is a spacious chamber, hidden from Helios, and thus forever dark,
save when Selene enters, lighting it, flooding it with the flare of her white heat.
It is a quiet place, with only the sound of the lover breathing, sometimes murmuring,
or of Selene cooing, gasping, or chanting to the sound of the harp.
The ceilings are cedar. The massive rafters are inlaid with silver frets, and supported
by Parian caryatides, titanic, bowed as with somnolescence, and separating
many metopes, one from another, Dionysian rout from corybantian whirl, the feet of the caryatides
bracing against a Parian floor at the center of which there spreads a mosaic, a Lesbian scene
designed in lapis lazuli, with border of anthemion. Against one wall,
between two caryatides, and hiding the lower part of a metope, Pan, squatting, perchance to rest,
there stands an ebony bed upholstered in celestial blue, draped thus, and elevated
on a rise of two broad steps of solid cedar, the lifts of which are inlaid with ivory. On this bed
Endymion lies, his flesh displayed, his head resting in a silver crescent upholstered in the same celestial blue.
The hair of the lover is much like red gold finely shredded, and curled in the shredding,
the crinkly refuse dusted over the body, at spots thickly, as, for example, at the breast — —
at spots bristling, and everywhere glistening, bright against flesh of Parian pallor, flesh delicately tinted, warm,
and sometimes hot as Parian chiseling, masterly chiseling, graced by the gaze of Helios.
I often go to the cave when Selene is absent, if only to listen there,
now to the breathing of the lost Æolian, or to his murmurings, which, at times,
burst with the name of Hera, plaintively, wildly, hoarsely, despairfully,
and many times in succession, the last time with a wail. I laugh. I laugh.
He once uttered the name in the presence of Selene, who, at that moment
was bending over him, sighing, gloating, ready to kiss the murmuring lips.
The goddess trembled, but quickly sealed the lips with her trembling fingers,
and sank down by her lover, her head pressing at his, her eyes alight with a subtle smile.
When other winds are uninspired, or tardy, or weary with long playing,
I enter the cave through the taut strings, as I alone can enter — —
moving as I alone can move, and rousing the strings to response
that makes Endymion writhe, makes him utter the name of Hera.
There Endymion lies, and thus, lost to his own flesh forever.
There Selene goes, and thus, to flesh that shall never be lost to her.
There she waits for hours beside her lover, motionless, mute — —
now gazing on him as if to count his hairs to the shortest, the last,
or now bending over him, passing her hands along his arms, his thighs,
and kissing the lips that whisper of her or murmur the name of Hera.
I must go. For Boreas plays to-night, and his fingers are cold and damp, like his breath — —
which often breaks the gut. He is unmusical, moreover — —
despite the fact that he is temperamental and often plays inspiredly.
I shall relieve him at the harp for a while. I shall make Endymion utter the name of Hera.
I heard no more from Zephyrus. He abandoned the leaves, left them slyly — —
fled forgetfully. But the young leaves, motionless, mute,
spellbound by the lore of the lover doomed to eternal sleep, let pass unnoticed
the departure of their suave informer. Not one leaf
aroused from its dream of the lover doomed to sleep forever,
until it awoke with all the others, to the presence of Eurus.
For Eurus came — —
came as he always comes, with an air of patronizing sadness,
drawing about himself as he came a soft but somber fabric,
a lachrymal robe,
and having come,
he spoke in strained and lofty tones to the sycamore leaves, who responded
loftily, all. I heard them soon in a flutter of anger. I heard them later
whimpering lightly over the thought of a lover doomed to eternal sleep. I hear them now
cooing to Eurus as once to Zephyrus — —
laughing at lovers who fall asleep.
I sit here now — —
too late, if I must say so, much too late — —
sit here while the trailing robe of Eurus drags its darkening folds
portentously, over a springtime that has laughed too long, the laughter
already ringing with autumnal hardness. O Selene, I sit here now — —
too wistfully for one no longer a lover — —
sit here only to watch you as you disappear in the Latmian gloom. I sit here wakefully through the night — —
too wide awake for one no longer a lover — —
sit here straining the amorous ear for a fugitive thud
from the hoofs of your disappearing mares, for a fugitive snore
from the nostrils of your sleeping lover. I hear instead
the voices of lovers who will not sleep.
I hear the mocking bird in the pines.
I hear the whippoorwill in the boscage.
I hear the bull, bugling, bugling. O Selene — —
Taurus would rather die than be doomed to eternal sleep.
I sit here sleeplessly — —
foolishly, though, for one no longer a lover — —
sit here with an air of patronizing sadness, wondering
if you sustained the rident leer when Zeus decreed the fate of your lover. I sit here wondering
if then you only assumed the rident leer as a haughty mask for woe. I shall always wonder
if you were forced to find for yourself the ultimate smile of love, but found it only
after long waiting — —
after long weeping — —
by the side of the lover doomed to eternal sleep.
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