Hippolytus

IN these untarnished meadows, where the bee
Plies undisturbed his summer husbandry,
Where never sound of men who sow and reap
Vexes the earth’s soft sleep,
All is so still I sometimes hear her pass;
Her foot’s divinity has touched the grass
And left its bloom more fair,
And falls upon the air
A brightness from her hair.

Here in her timeless garden, where the hours
Leave off their ringèd dance, I wreathe pale flowers
To crown her brows. So would I gather peace
And find at last release
From the dark visions the immortals send;
They give men death, but man’s blind fate no end;
Counting the wasted sands,
Knitting the broken strands
With their all-patient hands.

Like a dim legend written on the brain,
The shadows come; deep caverns yawn again
In the steep rocks, and monstrous deeds are done
Under an ancient sun.
Far voices call me and I hear the sound
Of endless hoof-beats on the echoing ground.
Why must you fall so fleet,
Dark and avenging feet,
While life and youth are sweet?