Reflections
I
Steal out with me
Over the moss and the daffodils.
Come to the temple,
Hung with sprays from untrimmed hedges.
I bring you a token
From the golden-haired revellers,
From the mad procession.
Come,
Flute girls shall pipe to us—
Their beautiful fingers!—
They are yellow-throated birds.
They send perfumes from dawn-scented garments,
Bending above us.
Come,
Bind your hair with white poplar,
Let your lips be sweet,
Wild roses of Paestum.
II
Ghost moths hover over asphodel;
Shades, once Laïs’ peers
Drift past us;
The mist is grey.
Far over us
The white wave-crests flash in the sun;
The sea-girls lie upon hot, weedy rocks.
Now the Maid returns to us
With fragrance of the world
And of the hours of gods.
On earth
Apple-trees, weighted with red fruit,
Streams, passing through the corn lands,
Hear laughter.
We pluck the asphodel,
Yet we weave no crowns
For we have no vines;
No one speaks here;
No one kisses.