balm

Touched his immortal fury. He had spied

Young Leda where she stood, poised on the river-side.

Even as she broke the river’s smooth expanse,

Leda was conscious of that hungry glance,

And knew it for an eye of fearful power

That did so hot and thunderously lour,

She knew not whence, on her frail nakedness.

Jove’s heart held but one thought: he must possess

That perfect form or die—possess or die.

Unheeded prayers and supplications fly,

Thick as a flock of birds, about his ears,

And smoke of incense rises; but he hears

Nought but the soft falls of that melody

Which is the speech of Leda; he can see

Nought but that almost spiritual grace

Which is her body, and that heavenly face

Where gay, sweet thoughts shine through, and eyes are bright

With purity and the soul’s inward light.

Have her he must: the teasel-fingered burr

Sticks not so fast in a wild beast’s tangled fur

As that insistent longing in the soul

Of mighty Jove. Gods, men, earth, heaven, the whole

Vast universe was blotted from his thought

And nought remained but Leda’s laughter, nought

But Leda’s eyes. Magnified by his lust,

She was the whole world now; have her he must, he must . . .

His spirit worked; how should he gain his end

With most deliciousness? What better friend,

What counsellor more subtle could he find

Than lovely Aphrodite, ever kind

To hapless lovers, ever cunning, too,

In all the tortuous ways of love to do

And plan the best? To Paphos then! His will

And act were one; and straight, invisible,

He stood in Paphos, breathing the languid air

By Aphrodite’s couch. O heavenly fair

She was, and smooth and marvellously young!

On Tyrian silk she lay, and purple hung

About her bed in folds of fluted light

And shadow, dark as wine. Two doves, more white

Even than the white hand on the purple lying

Like a pale flower wearily dropped, were flying

With wings that made an odoriferous stir,

Dropping faint dews of bakkaris and myrrh,

Musk and the soul of sweet flowers cunningly

Ravished from transient petals as they die.

Two stripling cupids on her either hand

Stood near with winnowing plumes and gently fanned

Her hot, love-fevered cheeks and eyelids burning.

Another, crouched at the bed’s foot, was turning

A mass of scattered parchments—vows or plaints

Or glad triumphant thanks which Venus’ saints,

Martyrs and heroes, on her altars strewed

With bitterest tears or gifts of gratitude.

From the pile heaped at Aphrodite’s feet

The boy would take a leaf, and in his sweet,

Clear voice would read what mortal tongues can tell

In stammering verse of those ineffable