Classic Poem

There is a crag in Thessaly
Where the grass is green
Like the greenness in my heart.

. . I am very far from you,
And I cannot find my sheep.

This I know, that when the door of the temple opened
And the high priest came down to the edge of the water,
I could almost have touched him.

If it were not for the sound of the camels breathing,
I should think there were not even nearness.

Hand round the great cup with the horn handle,
Lady of the broad girdle;
I have brought home buck-antlers.

If it should be as you say
Then the pigeon shall fly home by evening,
But do not tarry longer than the hour of the moon's rising.

Stand where the street branches on the way to the Circus;
But do not look at me in the procession;
I shall be leading the chanting.
I think, when he snores like that,
That his horse is impatient.
It would not do, though, to drop the hanging.

You say you have slaughtered the chief of the neighboring nation:
I will believe you when you bring me his tooth of black agate.

It is enough, Madame, I begin to understand you.
I regret the position in which I think you will find him;
He had a sweet treble.

When the lash eats, I think it will not be forever.
Last night I thrust the lentils out at the oar-lock while the sentry was drowsing.

When the ripe dates fall to the ground for lack of plucking
I will set my hand to the window,
And there will be no more sleeping.

The black cow to-day would not cross with the others,
And all underneath her the turf was quaking:
It will be a sign of the faring.

The wall, my lord, is very high,
But will it keep out folly?

If her breasts were fuller she would make no better model,
But I cannot use such lashes for my Madonna.

When the great conch blows I must leave you,
For the gods when they are carven of green jade
Are inscrutable.

I do not know why that star should have a way of looking
As if he could hear us even among the green rushes.
To-morrow night I will bind him with the thong from my loin-cloth,
But to-night there is time for only loving.

You think they are dancing around the May-pole:
I tell you I have seen that dance before,
And it is not for nothing it is pointed with an acorn.

Through subterranean corridors beneath the wooded mountain I thread the rosy labyrinth of warm and yielding walls,
Seeking, seeking. . . .

There were but six steps that led down to the judgment-chamber,
Yet it was the fourth step was his undoing.
To-night the door of your pavilion may be left unguarded.
I met my love in the morning. . . .
She was coming home at day-break,
And her eyes were starry.

All I know is, the touch of an ax on the nape of the neck
Is soft as the falling of snow-flakes between two silent houses.

Love, if they should tell you I am fallen, do not believe them,
For even were I to meet the black bane it would be but my way of returning,
Never to leave you again though an hundred battles were calling.

Even though your body blazes in this red morning,
Forget the sea of faces where clenched hands are tossing,
And in a little while we shall be together
Beyond crucifixion.

You came to meet me, yet I tell you,
It is not the first time you have seen me.
If it were, why did you come so quickly?