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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

KOSTES PALAMAS

LIFE IMMOVABLE

FIRST PART

TRANSLATED BY ARISTIDES E. PHOUTRIDES

WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY THE TRANSLATOR

CAMBRIDGE
HARVARD UNIVERSITY PRESS
1919

TO MRS. EVELETH WINSLOW

To Mrs. Eveleth Winslow

THIS VOLUME OF TRANSLATIONS IS DEDICATED
AS A TOKEN OF HER APPRECIATION
OF THE POET'S WORK

THIS VOLUME OF TRANSLATIONS IS DEDICATED
AS A SIGN OF HER
APPRECIATION
FOR THE POET'S WORK

PREFACE

The translations contained in the present volume were undertaken since the beginning of the great war when communication with Greece and access to my sources of information were always difficult and at times impossible. In hastening to present them to the English speaking public before discussing them with the poet himself and my friends in Athens, I am only yielding to the urgent requests of friends on both sides of the Atlantic who have regarded my delay with justifiable impatience. I am thoroughly conscious of the shortcomings that were bound to result from the above difficulties and from the interruption caused by my two years' service in the American army; and were it not for the encouragement and loyal assistance of those interested in my work it would have been impossible for me to bring it at all before the public. My earnest effort has been to be as faithful to the poet as possible, and for this reason I have not attempted to render rime, a dangerous obstacle to a natural expression of the poet's thought and diction. But I hope that the critics will judge my work as that of a mere pioneer. I know there is value in the theme; and if this value is made sufficiently evident to arouse the interest of poetry lovers in the achievements of contemporary Greece I shall have reaped my best reward.

The translations in this volume were done since the start of the great war when communicating with Greece and getting access to my information sources were always challenging and sometimes impossible. I'm rushing to share them with the English-speaking audience before discussing them with the poet and my friends in Athens, responding to the pressing requests from friends on both sides of the Atlantic who have justifiably shown impatience with my delay. I am fully aware of the shortcomings that resulted from these challenges and the interruption caused by my two years in the American army; without the encouragement and loyal support from those who cared about my work, I wouldn't have been able to present it to the public at all. My main goal has been to be as faithful to the poet as possible, which is why I haven't tried to include rhyme, a tricky barrier to expressing the poet's thoughts and style naturally. But I hope critics will see my work as that of a mere trailblazer. I know there’s value in the theme; if I can make that clear enough to spark the interest of poetry lovers in the achievements of contemporary Greece, I will have received my greatest reward.

I wish to express my thanks to Dr. Christos N. Lambrakis of Athens for the information which he has always been willing to furnish me regarding various dark points in the work translated; to Mrs. Eveleth Winslow of Washington for many valuable suggestions and criticisms; and above all to Professor Clifford H. Moore of Harvard University for the interest he has shown in the work and the readiness with which he has found time in the midst of his duties to take charge of my manuscript in my absence and to assist in seeing it through the press.

I want to thank Dr. Christos N. Lambrakis from Athens for always being willing to provide me with information about various unclear aspects of the translated work; Mrs. Eveleth Winslow from Washington for her many valuable suggestions and feedback; and especially Professor Clifford H. Moore from Harvard University for his interest in this project and for generously taking time out of his busy schedule to oversee my manuscript while I was away and to help get it published.

Aristides E. Phoutrides.

Washington, D.C.

July 7, 1919.

INTRODUCTION

KOSTES PALAMAS [1]

A NEW WORLD-POET

And then I saw that I am the poet, surely a poet among many a mere soldier of the verse, but always the poet who desires to close within his verse the longings and questionings of the universal man, and the cares and fanaticism of the citizen. I may not be a worthy citizen; but it cannot be that I am the poet of myself alone. I am the poet of my age and of my race. And what I hold within me cannot be divided from the world without.
Then I realized that I'm a poet, definitely one among many, just a soldier of verse, but always the poet who wants to express in my lines the desires and questions of humanity, as well as the concerns and passions of the people. I might not be a perfect citizen, but I can’t just be a poet for myself. I am the poet of my time and my community. What I hold inside me is interconnected with the world around me.

Kostes Palamas, Preface to The Twelve Words of the Gypsy.
Kostes Palamas, Preface to The Twelve Words of the Gypsy.

Kostes Palamas ... is raised not only above other poets of Modern Greece but above all the poets of contemporary Europe. Though he is not the most known ... he is incontestably the greatest.
Kostes Palamas ... is seen not just as better than other poets of Modern Greece but also as one of the best poets in contemporary Europe. While he might not be the most famous ... he is certainly the greatest.

Eugène Clement, Revue des Études Grecques.
Eugène Clement, Revue des Études Grecques.

I
THE STRUGGLE

Kostes Palamas! A name I hated once with all the sincerity of a young and blind enthusiast as the name of a traitor. This is no exaggeration. I was a student in the third class of an Athenian Gymnasion in 1901, when the Gospel Riots stained with blood the streets of Athens. The cause of the riots was a translation of the New Testament into the people's tongue by Alexandros Pallis, one of the great leaders of the literary renaissance of Modern Greece. The translation appeared in series in the daily newspaper Akropolis. The students of the University, animated by the fiery speeches of one of their Professors, George Mistriotes, the bulwark of the unreconcilable Purists, who would model the modern language of Greece after the ancient, regarded this translation as a treacherous profanation both of the sacred text and of the national speech. The demotikists, branded under the name of [Greek: Malliaroi] "the hairy ones," were thought even by serious people to be national traitors, the creators of a mysterious propaganda seeking to crush the aspirations of the Greek people by showing that their language was not the ancient Greek language and that they were not the heirs of Ancient Greece.

Kostes Palamas! A name I once deeply despised with all the passion of a young and blind enthusiast as if it belonged to a traitor. This isn’t an exaggeration. I was a student in the third year of an Athenian Gymnasium in 1901 when the Gospel Riots spilled blood onto the streets of Athens. These riots were sparked by a translation of the New Testament into the people's language by Alexandros Pallis, one of the key figures in the literary renaissance of Modern Greece. The translation was published in installments in the daily newspaper Akropolis. Inspired by the fiery speeches of their professor, George Mistriotes, who was a staunch defender of the uncompromising Purists aiming to shape modern Greek language in the image of the ancient, the university students viewed this translation as a betrayal of both the sacred text and the national language. The demotikists, derogatorily labeled as [Greek: Malliaroi] "the hairy ones," were even considered by serious people to be national traitors, accused of instigating a covert agenda to undermine the aspirations of the Greek people by suggesting that their language was different from ancient Greek and that they were no longer heirs to Ancient Greece.

Three names among the "Hairy Ones" were the object of universal detestation: John Psicharis, the well known Greek Professor in Paris, the author of many works and of the first complete Grammar of the people's idiom; Alexandros Pallis, the translator of the Iliad and of the New Testament; and Kostes Palamas, secretary of the University of Athens, the poet of this "anti-nationalistic" faction. Against them the bitterest invectives were cast. The University students and, with them, masses of people who joined without understanding the issue, paraded uncontrollable through the streets of Athens, broke down the establishment of the Akropolis, in which Pallis' vulgate version appeared, and demanded in all earnestness of the Metropolitan that he should renew the medieval measure of excommunication against all followers of the "Hairy Ones."

Three names among the "Hairy Ones" were universally hated: John Psicharis, the well-known Greek professor in Paris, who wrote many works and the first complete grammar of the people's language; Alexandros Pallis, the translator of the Iliad and the New Testament; and Kostes Palamas, the secretary of the University of Athens and the poet of this "anti-nationalistic" faction. The harshest insults were directed at them. University students, along with large crowds who joined in without fully understanding the situation, marched uncontrollably through the streets of Athens, vandalized the Akropolis establishment where Pallis' popular version was published, and earnestly demanded that the Metropolitan reinstate the medieval practice of excommunication against all followers of the "Hairy Ones."

Fortunately, the head of the Greek Church in Athens saved the Institution which he represented from an indelible shame by resisting the popular cries to the end. But the rioters became so violent that arms had to be used against them, resulting in the death of eight students and the wounding of about sixty others. This was utilized by politicians opposing the government: fiery speeches denouncing the measures adopted were heard in Parliament; the victims were eulogized as great martyrs of a sacred cause; and popular feeling ran so high that the Cabinet had to resign and the Metropolitan was forced to abdicate and die an exile in a monastery on the Island of Salamis. It was then that I first imbibed hatred against the "Hairy Ones" and Palamas.

Fortunately, the head of the Greek Church in Athens saved the institution he represented from lasting disgrace by resisting the popular outcry until the end. However, the rioters became so violent that force had to be used against them, leading to the deaths of eight students and injuries to about sixty others. This was exploited by politicians who opposed the government: fiery speeches condemning the measures taken were heard in Parliament; the victims were hailed as great martyrs for a sacred cause; and public sentiment ran so high that the Cabinet had to resign and the Metropolitan was forced to step down, dying in exile in a monastery on the Island of Salamis. It was then that I first developed a hatred for the "Hairy Ones" and Palamas.

About two years later, I had entered the University of Athens when another riot was started by the students after another fiery speech delivered by our puristic hero, Professor Mistriotes, against the performance of Aeschylus' Oresteia at the Royal Theatre in a popular translation made by Mr. Soteriades and considered too vulgar for puristic ears. This time, too, the riot was quelled, but not until one innocent passer-by had been killed. I am ashamed to confess that on that occasion I was actually among the rioters. It was the day after the riot that I first saw Palamas himself. He was standing before one of the side entrances to the University building when my companion showed him to me with a hateful sneer:

About two years later, I had enrolled at the University of Athens when another riot broke out among the students after another fiery speech from our purist hero, Professor Mistriotes, against the performance of Aeschylus' Oresteia at the Royal Theatre in a popular translation by Mr. Soteriades, which was deemed too vulgar for purist sensibilities. This time, the riot was suppressed, but not before an innocent bystander was killed. I’m ashamed to admit that I was actually part of the rioters that day. It was the day after the riot when I first saw Palamas in person. He was standing in front of one of the side entrances to the University building when my friend pointed him out to me with a contemptuous sneer:

"Look at him!"

"Check him out!"

"Who is it?"

"Who’s there?"

"The worst of them all, Palamas!"

I paused for a moment to have a full view of this notorious criminal. Rather short and compact in frame, he stood with eyes directed towards the sunlight streaming on the marble covered ground of the yard. He held a cane with both his hands and seemed to be thinking. Once or twice he glanced at the wall as if he were reading something, but again he turned towards the sunlight with an expression of sorrow on his face. There was nothing conspicuous about him, nothing aggressive. His rather pale face, furrowed brow, and meditative attitude were marks of a quiet, retiring, modest man. Do traitors then look so human? From the end of the colonnade, I watched him carefully until he turned away and entered the building. Then I followed him and walked up to the same entrance; on the wall, an inscription was scratched in heavy pencil strokes:

I paused for a moment to get a good look at this infamous criminal. He was quite short and solidly built, standing with his eyes fixed on the sunlight shining on the marble ground in the yard. He held onto a cane with both hands and appeared deep in thought. Every now and then, he glanced at the wall as if he were reading something, but he would quickly turn back to the sunlight with a look of sadness on his face. There was nothing striking about him, nothing threatening. His pale face, furrowed brow, and thoughtful demeanor suggested a quiet, reserved, humble man. Do traitors really look so human? From the end of the colonnade, I observed him closely until he turned away and went inside the building. Then I followed him and approached the same entrance; on the wall, there was an inscription scratched in thick pencil strokes:

"Down with Palamas! the bought one! the traitor!"
"Get rid of Palamas! The sellout! The traitor!"

At last my humanity was aroused, and the first rays of sympathy began to dispel my hatred. That remorseless inscription could not be true of this man, I thought, and I hurried to the library to read some of his work for the first time that I might form an opinion about him myself. Unfortunately, the verses on which I happened to come were too deep for my intellect, and I had not the patience to read them twice. I was so absolutely sure of the power of my mind that I ascribed my lack of understanding to the poet. Then his poems were so different from the easy, rhythmic, oratorical verses on which I had been brought up. In Palamas, I missed those pleasant trivialities which attract a boy's mind in poetry. One thing, however, was clear to me even then. Dark and unintelligible though his poems appeared, they were certainly full of a deep, passionate feeling, a feeling that haunted my thoughts long after I had closed his book in despair. From that day, I condescended to think of him as of a sincere follower of a wrong cause, as of a sheep that had been led astray.

Finally, my sense of humanity was stirred, and the first hints of sympathy began to replace my hatred. That harsh label couldn’t possibly describe this man, I thought, and I rushed to the library to read some of his work for the first time so I could form my own opinion about him. Unfortunately, the verses I encountered were too complex for me, and I didn’t have the patience to read them twice. I was so confident in my intelligence that I blamed my lack of understanding on the poet. His poems were so different from the straightforward, rhythmic verses I grew up with. In Palamas, I missed those light, entertaining elements that captivate a young mind in poetry. However, one thing was clear to me even then. Dark and confusing as his poems seemed, they were definitely filled with deep, passionate emotion, a feeling that lingered in my mind long after I had shut his book in frustration. From that day on, I allowed myself to think of him as a sincere follower of the wrong cause, like a sheep that had gone astray.

Years went by. I was no more in Greece. I had come to another country, where a new language, a new history, a new literature opened before me. Here, at last, I began to assume a reasonable attitude towards the question of the language of my old country, and here first I could read Palamas with understanding. Gradually, his greatness began to dawn on me, and, finally, my admiration for him had grown so much that when on April, 1914, I reached Greece as a travelling fellow from Harvard University, I had decided to concentrate my studies during the five months I was planning to spend there upon him and his work. With his work, I did spend many long and pleasant hours. But him I visited only once. The man from whom I had once shrunk as from a monster of evil, now I shunned for fear I had not yet learned to admire in accordance with his greatness. Owing to the urgent demand of an old classmate, Dr. Ch. N. Lambrakis, who knew the poet, I went to see him one April afternoon in his office at the University with my friend and fellow traveller, Mr. Francis P. Farquhar. Mr. Palamas was sitting at his official desk; but as soon as we entered he rose to receive us and then sat modestly in the corner of a sofa. He had changed very little in appearance since the time of the riots, and the more I looked at him the more I recognized the very same image which I had kept in my mind from the first encounter I had with him in the University colonnade ten years before. Perhaps, the furrows of his brow had now become deeper; the white hairs, more numerous. His eyes were still the same fiery eyes penetrating wherever they lit beneath the surface of things and often turning away from the present into the world of thought. His hands moved quietly; his voice was clear and sonant; his words were few and polite. Unassuming in his manner, he seemed more eager to receive knowledge than to talk about himself and his work. He asked us questions about America and its literary life: Is Poe read and appreciated? Is Walt Whitman still popular? He admired them both; he had a great craving for the new; and to read things about America fascinated him. When we rose to leave, we realized that we had been doing the talking, but on both of us the personality of the man, reserved and unobstrusive though he was, had made a deep and lasting impression.

Years went by. I was no longer in Greece. I had moved to another country, where a new language, a new history, and new literature opened up before me. Here, at last, I started to have a reasonable perspective on the language of my old country, and for the first time, I could read Palamas with understanding. Gradually, his greatness began to reveal itself to me, and by April 1914, when I returned to Greece as a visiting fellow from Harvard University, my admiration for him had grown so much that I decided to focus my studies during the five months I planned to spend there on him and his work. I spent many long and enjoyable hours with his work, but I only visited him once. The man I had once feared like a monster of evil was now someone I avoided because I felt I hadn’t yet learned to appreciate him according to his greatness. Because of an urgent request from an old classmate, Dr. Ch. N. Lambrakis, who knew the poet, I went to see him one April afternoon in his office at the University with my friend and fellow traveler, Mr. Francis P. Farquhar. Mr. Palamas was sitting at his desk, but as soon as we entered, he stood up to greet us and then modestly took a seat in the corner of a sofa. He hadn’t changed much in appearance since the time of the riots, and the more I looked at him, the more I recognized the same image I had kept in my mind from our first encounter in the University colonnade ten years earlier. Maybe the lines on his forehead had become deeper; the white hairs had increased. His eyes were still those fiery eyes, penetrating beneath the surface of things and often drifting away from the present into a world of thought. His hands moved quietly; his voice was clear and resonant; his words were few and polite. Unassuming in his demeanor, he seemed more eager to learn than to talk about himself and his work. He asked us questions about America and its literary scene: Is Poe read and appreciated? Is Walt Whitman still popular? He admired both; he had a strong craving for the new, and reading about America fascinated him. When we got up to leave, we realized that we had been doing most of the talking, but the personality of the man, though reserved and unassuming, had made a deep and lasting impression on both of us.

This was the only visit I had with him. But I saw him more than once walk in the streets of Athens and among the plane trees of Zappeion by the banks of Ilissus, or sitting alone at a table of some unfrequented coffeehouse, always far from the crowd. It was only after I had returned to America that I wrote to him for permission to translate some of his works. The answer came laden with the same modesty which is so prominent a characteristic of the man. He is afraid I am exaggerating the value of his work, and he calls himself a mere laborer of the verse. Certainly he has been a faithful laborer for a cause which a generation ago seemed hopeless. But through his faith and power, he has snatched the crown of victory from the hands of Time, and he may now be acclaimed as a new World-Poet.

This was the only time I met him. But I saw him more than once walking the streets of Athens and among the plane trees of Zappeion by the banks of the Ilissus, or sitting alone at a table in some quiet coffeehouse, always away from the crowd. It was only after I returned to America that I wrote to him asking for permission to translate some of his works. His response was filled with the same modesty that is such a defining trait of him. He worries that I’m overestimating the value of his work, and he refers to himself as just a simple worker of verse. He has certainly been a dedicated worker for a cause that seemed hopeless a generation ago. But through his faith and strength, he has won the crown of victory from the clutches of Time, and he can now be celebrated as a new World Poet.

"The poetic work of Kostes Palamas," says Eugène Clement, a French critic, in a recent article on the poet, "presents itself today with an imposing greatness. Without speaking about his early collections, in which already a talent of singular power is revealed, we may say that the four or five volumes of verse, which he has published during the last ten years raise him beyond comparison not only above all poets of Modern Greece but above all poets of contemporary Europe. Though he is not the most famous—owing to his overshadowing modesty and to the language he writes, which is little read beyond the borders of Hellenism—he is incontestably the greatest. The breadth of his views on the world and on humanity, on the history and soul of his race, in short, on all problems that agitate modern thought, places him in the first rank among those who have had the gift to clothe the philosophic idea in the sumptuous mantle of poetry. On the other hand, the vigor and richness of his imagination, the penetrating warmth of his feeling, the exquisite perfection of his art, and his gifted style manifest in him a poetic temperament of an exceptional fulness that was bound to give birth to great masterpieces."

"The poetic work of Kostes Palamas," says Eugène Clement, a French critic, in a recent article about the poet, "stands out today with impressive grandeur. Without going into his early collections, which already reveal a unique talent, we can say that the four or five volumes of poetry he has published in the last ten years elevate him above all poets in Modern Greece and all poets in contemporary Europe. Although he may not be the most famous—due to his overwhelming modesty and the language he writes, which is not widely read outside of Hellenism—he is undeniably the greatest. His broad views on the world and humanity, the history and spirit of his people, and all the issues that challenge modern thought position him among those who have the ability to express philosophical ideas in the rich form of poetry. Furthermore, the strength and depth of his imagination, the intense warmth of his emotions, the exquisite precision of his craft, and his talented style reveal a poetic temperament of extraordinary fullness that was destined to create great masterpieces."

II
LIFE INFLUENCES

Patras

Kostes Palamas was born in Patras sixty years ago. Patras is one of the most ancient towns in Greece, known even in mythical times as Aroe, the seat of King Eumelus, "rich in flocks." It became especially prominent after the reign of Augustus as a centre of commerce and industry. Its factories of silk were renowned in Byzantine times, and its commanding position attracted the Crusaders and the Venetians as a military base for the conquest of the Peloponnesus. The citadel walls that crown the hill, on the slopes of which the modern city descends amphitheatrically into the sea, are remnants of Venetian fortifications. In the history of Modern Greece, it is a hallowed spot; for it was here that on April 4, 1821, the standard of the War of Liberation was first raised before a band of warriors kneeling before the altar of Hagia Laura, while Germanos, the archbishop of the city, prayed for the success of their arms. The view which the city commands over the sapphire spaces of the Corinthian Gulf and the purple shadows of the mountains rising from its waters in all directions are superb, and the sunsets, that evening after evening revel in colors there, are among the most magnificent in Greece. A beauty worthy of life dwells over the vine-clad hills, while the mountain kings that rise about are hoary with age and fame. The eye wanders from the purple-laden cliffs of Kylene to the opal mantles of the sea and from the peaks of Parnassus to the lofty range of Kiona. This is the background of one of Palamas' "Hundred Voices," a collection of short lyrics in the volume entitled Life Immovable:

Kostes Palamas was born in Patras sixty years ago. Patras is one of the oldest towns in Greece, known even in mythical times as Aroe, the home of King Eumelus, "rich in flocks." It gained significance after the reign of Augustus as a center of commerce and industry. Its silk factories were famous during Byzantine times, and its strategic location drew the Crusaders and Venetians as a military base for the conquest of the Peloponnesus. The fortress walls that sit atop the hill, on whose slopes the modern city descends dramatically into the sea, are remnants of Venetian fortifications. In the history of Modern Greece, it is a revered site; for it was here that on April 4, 1821, the banner of the War of Liberation was first raised before a group of warriors kneeling at the altar of Hagia Laura, while Germanos, the archbishop of the city, prayed for their victory. The view the city provides over the sapphire waters of the Corinthian Gulf and the purple shadows of the mountains rising from it in all directions is stunning, and the sunsets, night after night bursting with colors, are among the most beautiful in Greece. A beauty worthy of life graces the vine-covered hills, while the ancient and famous mountain peaks that surround them stand tall. The eye travels from the purple-laden cliffs of Kylene to the opal hues of the sea and from the peaks of Parnassus to the grand range of Kiona. This is the backdrop of one of Palamas' "Hundred Voices," a collection of short lyrics in the volume titled Life Immovable:

Far glimmered the sea, and the harvest darkened the threshing floors;
I cared not for the harvest and looked not on the threshing floors;
For I stood on the end of the sea, and thee I beheld from afar,
O white, ethereal Liakoura, waiting that from thy midst
Parnassus, the ancient, shine forth and the Nine Fair Sisters of Song.
Yet, what if the fate of Parnassus is changed? What if the Nine Fair Sisters are gone?
Thou standest still, O Liakoura, young and for ever one,
O thou Muse of a future Rhythm and a Beauty still to be born.
The sea sparkled in the distance, and the harvest created shadows on the threshing floors;
I didn’t care about the harvest and ignored the threshing floors;
Because I stood at the edge of the sea, and I saw you from far away,
O white, ethereal Liakoura, waiting for Parnassus, the ancient, to rise from your center
and for the Nine Beautiful Sisters of Song to appear.
But what if Parnassus's fate has changed? What if the Nine Beautiful Sisters are gone?
You remain still, O Liakoura, forever young and unchanged,
O you Muse of a future Rhythm and a Beauty yet to be born.

To his birth place, the poet dedicates one of his collection of sonnets entitled "Fatherlands" and contained in the same volume. It is the first of the series:

To his birthplace, the poet dedicates one of his collections of sonnets titled "Fatherlands," which is included in the same volume. It is the first in the series:

Where with its many ships the harbor moans,
The land spreads beaten by the billows wild,
Remembering not even as a dream
Her ancient silkworks, carriers of wealth.
Where the harbor strains under numerous ships,
The land is pounded by the fierce waves,
Forgetting, not even in dreams,
Her ancient silkworks, once symbols of wealth.

The vineyards, filled with fruit, now make her rich;
And on her brow, an aged crown she wears,
A castle that the strangers, Franks or Turks,
Thirst for, since Venice founded it with might.
The vineyards, overflowing with fruit, now bring her prosperity;
And on her head, she wears an ancient crown,
A castle that outsiders, whether Franks or Turks,
Covet, since Venice built it through power.

O'er her a mountain stands, a sleepless watch;
And white like dawn, Parnassus shimmers far
Aloft with midland Zygos at his side.
A mountain towers above her, always keeping watch;
And white like dawn, Parnassus shines in the distance,
Up high with midland Zygos beside it.

Here I first opened to the day mine eyes;
And here my memory weaves a dream dream-born,
An image faint, half-vanished, fair—a mother.
Here I first opened my eyes to the day;
And here my memory conjures a dream born from dreams,
A faint, half-remembered image, beautiful—a mother.

Missolonghi

But in Patras, the child did not stay long. His early home seems to have been broken up by the death of his mother, and we find him next in Missolonghi, another glorious spot in the history of Modern Greece. It does not pride itself on its antiquity. It developed late in the Middle Ages from a fishing hamlet colonized by people who were attracted by the abundance of fish in the lagoon separating the town from the sea. This lagoon lies across the Corinthian Gulf to the northwest of Patras, hardly an hour's sail from it. Its shallow waters, which can be traversed only by small flat-bottomed dories propelled with poles, extend between the mouths of the Phidaris and the Acheloös, and are studded with small islets just emerging above the face of the lagoon and covered with rushes. Two of these islets, Vassiladi and Kleisova, attained great fame by the heroic resistance of their garrisons against the forces of Kioutachi and Imbrahim, Pashas in the War of Liberation. The town itself is a shrine of patriotism for modern Greeks. For from 1822 to 1826, with its humble walls hardly stronger than fences, it sustained the attacks of very superior forces, and its ground was hallowed by the blood of many national heroes. Just outside its walls lies the "Heroes' Garden" or "Heroön," where under the shadows of eucalyptus and cypress trees, Marcos Bozzaris, Mavromichalis, the philhellene General Coreman, and Lord Byron's heart are buried. It was during the second siege that Byron died here in the midst of his noble efforts for the freedom of Greece. The fall of the city brought about by famine is the most glorious defeat in the history of the Greek Revolution. The garrison of three thousand soldiers with six thousand unarmed persons including women and children, unwilling to surrender, attempted to break through the Turkish lines. But only one-sixth managed to escape. The rest were driven back and mercilessly cut down by their pursuers. Many took refuge in the powder magazines of the city and waited until the Turks drew up in great numbers; then they set fire to the powder and blew up friends and foes alike. The second sonnet of Palamas' "Fatherlands" is devoted to this lagoon city:

But in Patras, the child didn’t stay long. His early home seems to have been disrupted by his mother’s death, and we find him next in Missolonghi, another significant location in the history of Modern Greece. It doesn’t boast about its ancient roots. It emerged late in the Middle Ages from a fishing village populated by people attracted by the abundance of fish in the lagoon that separates the town from the sea. This lagoon lies across the Corinthian Gulf to the northwest of Patras, just under an hour’s sail away. Its shallow waters can only be navigated by small flat-bottomed boats pushed with poles, stretching between the mouths of the Phidaris and the Acheloös, and dotted with small islets just above the surface of the lagoon, covered in rushes. Two of these islets, Vassiladi and Kleisova, gained significant fame for the heroic resistance of their defenders against the forces of Kioutachi and Imbrahim, Pashas during the War of Liberation. The town itself is a symbol of patriotism for modern Greeks. From 1822 to 1826, with its modest walls barely stronger than fences, it held off much larger forces, and its ground was sanctified by the blood of many national heroes. Just outside its walls lies the "Heroes' Garden" or "Heroön," where under the shades of eucalyptus and cypress trees, Marcos Bozzaris, Mavromichalis, the philhellene General Coreman, and Lord Byron’s heart are buried. It was during the second siege that Byron died here amid his noble efforts for Greece’s freedom. The fall of the city due to famine is regarded as the most glorious defeat in the history of the Greek Revolution. The garrison of three thousand soldiers, along with six thousand unarmed individuals including women and children, refusing to surrender, attempted to break through the Turkish lines. But only one-sixth managed to escape. The rest were pushed back and brutally killed by their pursuers. Many took refuge in the city’s powder magazines and waited until the Turks gathered in large numbers; then they set fire to the powder and blew up both friends and enemies. The second sonnet of Palamas' "Fatherlands" is dedicated to this lagoon city:

Upon the lake, the island-studded, where
The breeze of May, grown strong with sea-brine, stirs
The seashore strewn with seaweed far away,
The Fates cast me a little child thrice orphan.
On the lake, where islands are scattered,
The May breeze, heavy with sea salt, stirs
The distant beach covered in seaweed,
The Fates have given me a little child who is an orphan three times over.

'Tis there the northwind battles mightily
Upon the southwind; and the high tide on
The low; and far into the main's abyss
The dazzling coral of the sun is sinking.
It’s where the north wind battles fiercely
Against the south wind; and the high tide against
The low; and deep into the ocean’s depths
The bright coral of the sun is sinking.

There stands Varassova, the triple-headed;
And from her heights, a lady from her tower,
The moon bends o'er the waters lying still.
There stands Varassova, with her three heads;
And from her heights, a lady in her tower,
The moon leans over the still waters.

But innocent peace, the peace that is a child's,
Not even there I knew; but only sorrow
And, what is now a fire—the spirit's spark.
But I didn’t find innocent peace, the peace of a child,
Only sorrow
And what’s now a fire—the spark of the spirit.

Here then, "the spirit's spark" was first kindled, and here, in the city of his ancestors, the poet was born. The swampy meadows overgrown with rushes and surrounded with violet mountains, the city with its narrow crooked streets and low-roofed houses, the lagoon with its still shallow waters and modest islets, the life of townsmen and peasants with their humbles occupations, passions, and legends, above all, the picturesque distinctness of this somewhat isolated place, secluded, as it seems, in an atmosphere laden with national lore—these were the incentives which stirred Palamas in his quest of song. They have stamped their image on all his work, but their most distinct reflection is found in The Lagoon's Regrets, which is filled with memories of the poet's early life in a world he always remembers with affection:

Here, "the spirit's spark" was first ignited, and here, in the city of his ancestors, the poet was born. The marshy meadows thick with reeds and surrounded by purple mountains, the city with its narrow winding streets and low-roofed houses, the lagoon with its calm shallow waters and small islets, the lives of townspeople and farmers with their humble jobs, passions, and stories, and especially the unique charm of this somewhat isolated place, seemingly wrapped in an atmosphere rich with national history—these were the inspirations that drove Palamas in his pursuit of poetry. They have left their mark on all his work, but their most significant reflection is found in The Lagoon's Regrets, which is filled with memories of the poet's early life in a world he always remembers fondly:

Imagination flies to hells and stars,
A witch beguiling, an enchantress strange;
But ours the Heart remains and binds both life
And love with the native soil, nor seems to die.
Imagination flies to hells and stars,
A witch enchanting, a mysterious sorceress;
But our Heart endures and connects life
And love to the familiar earth, showing no signs of fading.

Peaks, depths, I sought Eurydice of old:
"What longing moans within me now, new-born?
Would that I were a fisherman at work,
Waking thy sleeping waters with my oar,
O Missolonghi!"
Highs and lows, I searched for Eurydice from long ago:
"What desire stirs inside me now, newly awakened?
I wish I were a fisherman at work,
Stirring your calm waters with my oar,
O Missolonghi!"

Humble but natural in feeling is the appeal to a friend of his childhood days:

Humble yet genuine is the appeal to a friend from his childhood.

The peasant's huts in Midfield
For us, old friend, are waiting:
Come as of old to eat
The fresh-made cheese, and taste
The hard-made loaf of cornbread.
The peasant's huts in Midfield
Are ready for you, old friend:
Come like you used to, to enjoy
The fresh cheese, and taste
The homemade loaf of cornbread.

Come, and drink the milk drawn pure;
And filled with dew and gladness,
Stir up the hunger of the youth
Beside you, buxom lasses.
Come, and drink the fresh milk;
And filled with dew and joy,
Spark the hunger of the young
Next to you, lively girls.

Here, too, he sings of the "crystal salt that is drawn snow-white from the lake"; of the rain "that always weeps" and of the conquering tides. Here he listens to the whispers of the waves while they murmur with each other with restrained pride; and here over Byron's grave he dreams of the great poet of Greece, who will come to ride on Byron's winged horse. The poems of this collection are short but exquisitely wrought in verse and language, full of life and of feeling. They are especially marked with Palamas' attachment to the little and humble, which he loves to raise into music and rhythm, and for which he always has sympathy and even admiration.

Here, too, he sings about the "crystal salt that comes out snow-white from the lake"; of the rain "that always cries" and of the powerful tides. Here he listens to the whispers of the waves as they softly talk to each other with quiet pride; and here over Byron's grave he imagines the great poet of Greece, who will come to ride on Byron's winged horse. The poems in this collection are short but beautifully crafted in verse and language, full of life and emotion. They especially reflect Palamas' love for the small and simple, which he enjoys transforming into music and rhythm, and for which he always feels sympathy and even admiration.

Athens, the Violet-Crowned

Missolonghi nurtured the poet in his youth and led him to the threshold of manhood. But when he had graduated from the provincial "gymnasion," he naturally came to Athens in order to complete his education in the University of that city, the only University in Greece. This brought him to the place which was destined to develop his greatness to its zenith. The quiet, retired, and humble life of the Lagoon with its air filled with legend was suddenly exchanged for the shining rocks of Attica and its great city, flooded with dazzling light and roofed with a sky that keeps its azure even in the midst of night. Life here is full, restless, and tumultuous as in the days of Athens of old. The violet shadows of the mountains enclosing the silver olive groves of the white plain are still the makers of the violet crown of Athens.

Missolonghi nurtured the poet in his youth and led him to the brink of adulthood. After graduating from the local "gymnasion," he naturally moved to Athens to finish his education at the city's university, the only one in Greece. This brought him to a place that would help him reach his full potential. The quiet, secluded, and simple life of the Lagoon, steeped in legend, was suddenly replaced by the bright rocks of Attica and its vibrant city, bathed in dazzling light and covered by a sky that remains blue even at night. Life here is full, restless, and chaotic like in the days of ancient Athens. The violet shadows of the mountains surrounding the silver olive groves of the white plain are still what creates the violet crown of Athens.

The poet in one of his "Hundred Voices" pictures a clear Attic afternoon in February:

The poet in one of his "Hundred Voices" describes a clear afternoon in February in Athens:

Even in the winter's heart, the almonds are ablossom!
And lo, the angry month is gay with sunshine laughter,
While to this beauty round about a crown you weave,
O naked rocks and painted mountain slopes of Athens.
Even in the depth of winter, the almond trees are blooming!
And look, this harsh month is brightened by sunny laughter,
While to this beauty all around, you create a crown,
O bare rocks and colorful slopes of Athens.

Even the snow on Parnes seems like fields in bloom;
A timid greenish glow caresses like a dream
The Heights of Corydallus; white Pentele smiles upon
The Sacred Rock of Pallas; and old Hymettus stoops
To listen to the love-song of Phaleron's sea.
Even the snow on Parnes resembles blooming fields;
A soft greenish light gently touches like a dream
The Heights of Corydallus; white Pentele smiles down
On the Sacred Rock of Pallas; and old Hymettus leans
To hear the love song of Phaleron's sea.

It is its scanty vegetation that makes the southwestern region of Attica look like a mountain lake of light. The nakedness of the mountain ranges and the whiteness of the plains are vaulted over by a brilliant sky and surrounded by a sea of a splendid sapphire glow. Even the olive trees, which still grace the fields about Athens are bunches of silver rather than of green. In "The Satyr, or the Naked Song," taken from the volume of Town and Wilderness we may detect the very spirit which, springing from the same soil thousands of years ago, created the song which gradually rose from primitive sensuousness to the heights of the Greek Tragedy:

It’s the sparse vegetation that makes the southwestern part of Attica resemble a mountain lake filled with light. The bare mountain ranges and the white plains are covered by a bright sky and surrounded by a beautifully blue sea. Even the olive trees that still adorn the fields around Athens look more silver than green. In "The Satyr, or the Naked Song," found in the volume Town and Wilderness, we can sense the very essence that, emerging from the same land thousands of years ago, inspired the song that evolved from primitive sensuality to the heights of Greek Tragedy:

All about us naked!
All is naked here!
Mountains, fields, and heavens wide!
The day reigns uncontrolled;
The world, transparent; and pellucid
The thrice-deep palaces.
Eyes, fill yourselves with light
And ye, O Lyres, with rhythm!
Everything around us is bare!
Everything is laid out here!
Mountains, fields, and the vast sky!
The day shines freely;
The world is clear and bright.
The deep palaces are crystal clear.
Eyes soak up the light
And you, O Lyres, bring the rhythm!

Here, the trees are stains
Out of tune and rare;
The world is wine unmixed;
And nakedness, a mistress.
Here, the shade is but a dream;
And even on the night's dim lips
A golden laughter dawns!
Here, the trees are distinct
Unusual and off-key;
The world is pure wine;
And nudity is a lover.
Here, shade is just an illusion;
And even on the night’s muted lips
A golden laughter emerges!

Here all are stripped of cover
And revel lustfully;
The barren rock, a star!
The body is a flame!
Rubies here and things of gold,
Priceless pearls and things of silver,
Scatter, O divinely naked Land,
Scatter, O thrice-noble Attica!
Here, everyone is exposed
And celebrating wildly;
The dry stone is a star!
The body is ablaze!
Rubies and gold all around,
Priceless pearls and silver,
Scatter, O beautifully naked land,
Scatter, O nobly blessed Attica!

Here manhood is enchanting,
And flesh is deified;
Artemis is virginity,
And Longing is a Hermes;
And here, and every hour,
Aphrodite rises bare,
A marvel to the Sea-Things,
And to the world, a wonder!
Here, masculinity is captivating,
And flesh is celebrated;
Artemis embodies virginity,
And Longing is like Hermes;
And here, every hour,
Aphrodite appears nude,
A marvel to the Sea Creatures,
And to the world, a wonder!

Come, lay aside thy mantle!
Clothe thee with nakedness,
O Soul, that art its priestess!
For lo, thy body is thy temple.
Pass unto me a magnet's stream,
O amber of the flesh,
And let me drink of nectar drawn
From Nakedness Olympian!
Come, take off your cloak!
Dress in your bare skin,
O Soul, who is its priestess!
For truly, your body is your temple.
Send me a stream like a magnet's,
O essence of flesh,
And let me drink the nectar drawn
From Divine Nakedness!

Tear thy veil, and throw away
Thy robe that flows discordantly!
With nature only match thy form,
With nature match thy plastic image.
Loosen thy girdle! Cross
Thy hands upon thy heart!
Thy hair is purple royal,
A mantle fairly flowing.
Tear your veil and toss aside
Your awkward robe!
Just align your form with nature,
Match your shape with the natural world.
Loosen your belt! Cross
Your hands over your heart!
Your hair is a royal purple,
A beautifully flowing mantle.

And be a tranquil statue;
And let thy body take
Of Art's perfection chiseled
Upon the shining stone;
And play, and sing, and mimic
With thoughtful nakedness
Lithe beasts and snakes and birds
That dwell in wilderness.
And be a calm statue;
Let your body reflect
The perfection of art carved
Into polished stone;
And play, and sing, and imitate
With mindful openness
Graceful animals, snakes, and birds
That live in the wild.

And play, and sing, and mimic
All things of joy, all things of beauty;
And let thy nakedness
Pale into light of living thought.
Forms rounded and forms flat,
Soft down, lines curved and straight,
O shiverings divine,
Dance on your dance of gladness!
And play, and sing, and imitate
All things that bring joy, all things that are beautiful;
And let your vulnerability
Fade into the light of vibrant ideas.
Curvy shapes and flat shapes,
Soft textures, lines both curved and straight,
O divine shivers,
Dance in your dance of happiness!

Forehead, and eyes, and waves
Of hair, and loins, ...
And secret dales and places!
Roses of love and myrtles!
Ye feet that bind with chains!
Hands, Fountains of caress,
And Doves of longing sweet,
And falcons of destruction!
Forehead, and eyes, and waves
Of hair, and hips,...
And hidden valleys and spots!
Roses of love and myrtles!
You feet that bind with chains!
Hands, fountains of affection,
And doves of sweet longing,
And falcons of destruction!

Whole hearted are thy words,
And bold, O mouth, O mouth,
Like wax of honey bees,
Like pomegranates in bloom.
The alabaster lilies,
April's own fragrant censers,
Envy thy breast's full cups!
Oh, let me drink from them!
Your words are whole and heartfelt,
And bold, oh mouth, oh mouth,
Like honeycomb from bees,
Like blooming pomegranates.
The alabaster lilies,
April's fragrant censers,
Envy your breast's full cups!
Oh, let me drink from them!

Drink from the rosy tinged,
Erect, enameled, fresh,
The milk I dreamed and dreamed
Of happiness. Thee!
I am thy mystic priest,
And altars are thy knees;
And in thy warm embrace
Gods work their miracles!
Drink from the rosy-tinted,
Standing tall, smooth, fresh,
The milk I wished for,
For happiness. You!
I am your mystic priest,
And your knees are the altars;
And in your warm embrace,
Gods perform their miracles!

Away, all tuneless things!
Hidden and covered things, away!
Away, all crippled, shapeless things,
And things profane and strange!
Erect and naked all, and guileless,
Bodies and breasts and earth and skies!
Nakedness, too, is truth,
And nakedness is beauty!
Away with all things without sound!
Hidden and covered things, go away!
Away with all the broken, formless things,
And the strange, unholy things!
Stand tall and exposed, honest and true,
Bodies and chests, land and skies!
Nakedness is truth,
And nakedness is beauty!

* * * * *
* * * * *

In nakedness, with sunshine graced,
That fills the Attic day,
If thou beholdest stand before thee
Something like a monster bare,
Something that like a leafless tree
Stands stripped of shadow's grace,
And like a stone unwrought,
His body is rough and gaunt,
In the bright sunlight of the Attic day,
If you see something like a bare monster
Standing before you,
Something like a bare tree
Stripped of shadow’s beauty,
And like an unshaped stone,
His body is rough and thin,

Something that naked, bare, and nude
Roams in the thrice-wide spaces,
Something whose life is told in flames
That light beneath his eyelids,
Akin to the old Satyrs' breed
And tameless like a beast,
A singer silver-voiced,
Flee not in fear! 'Tis I!
Something that’s exposed, bare, and nude
Roams in vast open spaces,
Something whose life is expressed in flames
That glow beneath his eyelids,
Like the ancient Satyrs,
Wild like a beast,
A silver-voiced singer,
Don’t run in fear! It’s me!

The Satyr! I have taken here
Roots like an olive tree,
And with my flute deep-sounding,
I make the breezes languish.
I play and lo, all things are mated,
Love giving, love receiving.
I play and lo, all things are dancing,
All: Men and beasts and spirits!
The Satyr! I've gathered here
Roots like an olive tree,
And with my deep-sounding flute,
I make the breezes soft.
I play, and look, everything pairs up,
Love flowing both ways.
I play, and look, everything starts dancing,
All: people, animals, and spirits!

Athens, the Centre of Greece

So much of the natural atmosphere of Athens and Attica. But the Athenians themselves, their thoughts, life, and dreams have not proved less important nor less effective for the poet's growth. The spiritual and intellectual currents moving the Greek nation of today start from this city. Here politics, poetry, and philosophy are still discussed in the old way at the various shops, the coffee houses, and under the plane trees by the banks of Ilissus. The "boulé" is the centre of the political activity of the state. The University with its democratic faculty and still more democratic student body is certainly a "flaming" hearth of culture. Only, its flames are sometimes so ventilated by current events and political developments that the students often assume the functions of the old Athenian Assembly. In the riotous expression of their temporary feelings, the students are not very different from the ancient demesmen. In my days, at least, the most frequent greeting among students was "How is politics today?", with the word "politics" used in its ancient meaning. Any question of general interest might easily be regarded as a national issue to be treated on a political basis. Thus it happened that when the question of language was brought to the foreground by Pallis' vernacular translation of the New Testament, the students took up arms rather than argument.

So much of the natural vibe of Athens and Attica. But the Athenians themselves, their thoughts, lives, and dreams have been just as important and influential for the poet's development. The spiritual and intellectual movements driving the Greek nation today begin in this city. Here, politics, poetry, and philosophy are still talked about in the traditional way at various shops, coffee houses, and under the plane trees by the banks of the Ilissus. The "boulé" is the center of the state's political activity. The University, with its democratic faculty and even more democratic student body, is definitely a vibrant hub of culture. However, its energy is sometimes influenced by current events and political developments, causing the students to take on the roles of the old Athenian Assembly. In their passionate expressions of temporary feelings, the students aren't very different from the ancient citizens. In my time, at least, the most common greeting among students was "How's politics today?", with the word "politics" used in its original sense. Any question of general interest could easily be viewed as a national issue to address politically. So, when the issue of language was brought into focus by Pallis' vernacular translation of the New Testament, the students chose to fight rather than debate.

Into this world, the poet came to finish his education. In one of his critical essays (Grammata, vol. i), he tells us of the literary atmosphere prevailing in Athens at that time, about 1879. That year, Valaorites, the second great poet of the people's language, died, and his death renewed with vigor the controversy that had continued even after the death of Solomos, the earliest great poet of Modern Greece. The passing away of Valaorites left Rangabes, the relentless purist, the monarch of the literary world. He was considered as the master whom every one should aspire to imitate. His language, ultra-puristic, had travelled leagues away from the people without approaching at all the splendor of the ancient speech. But the purists drew great delight from reading his works and clapped their hands with satisfaction on seeing how near Plato and Aeschylus they had managed to come.

Into this world, the poet came to complete his education. In one of his critical essays (Grammata, vol. i), he describes the literary atmosphere in Athens around 1879. That year, Valaorites, the second great poet of the people's language, passed away, and his death revived the debate that had persisted even after the death of Solomos, the earliest great poet of Modern Greece. The passing of Valaorites left Rangabes, the unyielding purist, as the king of the literary world. He was seen as the master everyone should strive to imitate. His language, extremely puristic, had moved far away from the people without ever capturing the brilliance of the ancient speech. However, purists found great joy in reading his works and applauded with satisfaction at how closely they had come to resembling Plato and Aeschylus.

Young and susceptible to the popular currents of the literary world, Palamas, too, worshipped the established idol, and offered his frankincense in verses modelled after Rangabean conceptions. In the same essay to which I have just referred, he tells us of the life he led with another young friend, likewise a literary aspirant, during the years of his attendance at the University. The two lived and worked together. They wrote poems in the puristic language and compared their works in stimulating friendliness. But soon they realized the truth that if poetry is to be eternal, it must express the individual through the voice of the world to which the individual belongs and through the language which the people speak.

Young and impressionable, Palamas was drawn to the trends in the literary scene and admired the popular figures of the time, crafting his own verses influenced by Rangabean ideas. In the same essay I just mentioned, he shares his experiences with another young friend, who was also pursuing a literary career, during his time at the University. The two lived and collaborated closely, writing poems in a refined language and exchanging their work in a supportive atmosphere. However, they soon came to understand that for poetry to be timeless, it has to reflect the individual through the voice of the community they belong to and in the language that people actually speak.

This truth took deep roots in the mind of Palamas. His conviction grew into a religion permeated with the warmth, earnestness, and devotion that martyrs only have shown to their cause. Believing that purism was nothing but a blind attempt to drown the living traditions of the people and to conceal its nature under a specious mantle of shallow gorgeousness, he has given his talent and his heart to save his nation from such a calamity. In this great struggle, he has suffered not a little. When the popular fury rose against his cause, and he was blackened as a traitor and a renegade, he wrote in words illustrating his inner agony:

This truth took deep root in Palamas's mind. His belief developed into a faith filled with the warmth, sincerity, and dedication that only martyrs have shown for their cause. He thought that purism was nothing more than a blind effort to suppress the living traditions of the people and hide its essence under a deceptive layer of superficial beauty. He devoted his talent and heart to save his nation from such a disaster. In this struggle, he endured a great deal. When public outrage turned against him, and he was labeled a traitor and a renegade, he expressed his inner agony in his writing:

I labored long to create the statue for the Temple
Of stone that I had found,
To set it up in nakedness, and then to pass;
To pass but not to die.
I worked hard to make the statue for the Temple,
From stone I had found,
To set it up bare, and then to move on;
To move on but not to die.

And I created it. But narrow men who bow
To worship shapeless wooden images, ill clad,
With hostile glances and with shudderings of fear,
Looked down upon us, work and worker, angrily.
And I did it. But close-minded men who kneel
To worship lifeless wooden idols, poorly dressed,
With angry glares and shivers of fear,
Looked down on us, the work and the worker, with rage.

My statue in the rubbish thrown! And I, an exile!
To foreign lands I led my restless wanderings;
But ere I left, a sacrifice unheard I offered:
I dug a pit, and in the pit I laid my statue.
My statue is thrown in the trash! And I, a refugee!
To distant places I took my restless journey;
But before I left, I made a silent sacrifice:
I dug a hole, and in that hole, I placed my statue.

And then I whispered: "Here, lie low unseen and live
With things deep-rooted and among the ancient ruins
Until thine hour comes. Immortal flower thou art!
A Temple waits to clothe thy nakedness divine!"
Then I whispered: "Stay hidden here and live
With the deep-rooted things and among the ancient ruins
Until your time comes. You are an eternal flower!
A Temple awaits to cover your divine nakedness!"

And with a mouth thrice-wide, and with the voice of prophets,
The pit spoke: "Temple, none! Nor pedestal! Nor light!
In vain! For nowhere is thy flower fit, O maker!
Better for ever lost in these unlighted depths.
And with a mouth three times as wide, and with the voice of prophets,
The pit spoke: "No temple, no pedestal, no light!
It's useless! For there’s no place for your flower, creator!
It’s better off forever lost in these dark depths.

"Its hour may never come! And if it come, and if
Thy work be raised, the Temple will be radiant
With a great host of statues, statues of no blemish,
And works of thrice-great makers unapproachable.
"Its time may never come! And if it does, and if
Your work is elevated, the Temple will shine
With a multitude of perfect statues,
And creations from the highly skilled artisans."

"To-day was soon for thee; to-morrow will be late.
Thy dream is vain; the dawn thou longest will not dawn;
Thus, burning for eternities thou mayest not reach,
Remain, Cloud-Hunter and Praxiteles of shadows!
"Today is too soon for you; tomorrow will be too late.
Your dream is pointless; the dawn you're hoping for won't come;
Thus, burning for eternity, you may never arrive,
Stay, Cloud-Hunter and Praxiteles of shadows!"

"To-morrow and to-day for thee are snares and seas.
All are but traps for drowning thee and visions false.
Longer than thy glory is the violet's in thy garden!
And thou shalt pass away; hear this, and thou shalt die!"
"Tomorrow and today for you are traps and oceans.
All are just snares meant to drown you and deceitful visions.
Longer than your glory is the violet's in your garden!
And you will fade away; hear this, and you will die!"

And then I answered: "Let me pass away and die!
Creator am I, too, with all my heart and mind;
Let pits devour my work. Of all eternal things,
My restless wandering may have the greatest worth."
And then I replied: "Just let me go and die!
I’m a creator too, with all my heart and mind;
Let pits destroy my work. Of all eternal things,
My endless searching might have the most value."

The same idea, though expressed in a more familiar figure, is found in another poem published among The Lagoon's Regrets.

The same idea, but expressed in a more relatable way, appears in another poem published in The Lagoon's Regrets.

The Guitar

In the old attic of the humble house,
The guitar hangs in cobwebs wrapped:
Softly, oh, softly touch her! Listen!
You have awaked the sleeping one!
In the old attic of the small house,
The guitar hangs covered in cobwebs:
Gently, oh, gently touch her! Listen!
You have stirred the sleeping one!

She is awake, and with her waking,
Something like distant humming bees
Creeps far away and weeps about her;
Something that lives while ruins choke it.
She is awake, and with her awakening,
Something like a distant hum of bees
Lingers far away and mourns for her;
Something that endures while ruins stifle it.

Something like moans, like humming bees,
Thy sickened children, old guitar,
Thy words and airs. What evil pest,
What blight is eating thine old age!
Something like moans, like buzzing bees,
Your ailing children, old guitar,
Your words and melodies. What a terrible disease,
What curse is draining your old age!

In the old attic of the humble house,
Thou hast awaked; but who will tend thee?
O Mother, wilderness about thee!
Thy children, withering; and something,
Like humming bees, sounds far away!
In the old attic of the small house,
You’ve awakened; but who will care for you?
Oh Mother, surrounded by wilderness!
Your children are fading; and something,
Like humming bees, sounds distant!

A distinct note of pessimism is found in the lines of both these poems. In the latter, it becomes a helpless cry of anguish. But despair seems to cure the poet rather than drown his faith in hopelessness. As a critic, he encourages every initiate of the cause. As a "soldier of the verse," he himself fights his battles of song in every field. In short story, in drama, in epic poetry, and above all in lyrics, he creates work after work. From the Songs of my Country, the Hymn to Athena, the Eyes of my Soul and the Iambs and Anapaests, he rises gradually and steadily to the tragic drama of the Thrice Noble-One, to the epic of The King's Flute, and to the splendid lyrics of Life Immovable and The Twelve Words of the Gypsy which are his masterpieces.

A clear sense of pessimism runs through both of these poems. In the second one, it turns into a desperate cry of pain. However, instead of drowning the poet in hopelessness, despair seems to inspire him. As a critic, he motivates everyone involved in the cause. As a "soldier of verse," he fights his lyrical battles in every genre: short stories, drama, epic poetry, and especially lyrics, producing work after work. From the Songs of my Country, the Hymn to Athena, the Eyes of my Soul, and the Iambs and Anapaests, he gradually ascends to the tragic drama of the Thrice Noble-One, the epic of The King's Flute, and the magnificent lyrics of Life Immovable and The Twelve Words of the Gypsy, which are his masterpieces.

Nor does he always meet adversity with songs of resignation. At times, he faces indignantly the hostile world with a satire as stinging as that of Juvenal. He dares attack with Byronic boldness every idol that his enemies worship. Often he strikes at the whole people with Archilochean bitterness and parries blow for blow like Hipponax. At times, he even seems to approach the rancor of Swift. But then he immediately throws away his whip and transcends his satire with a loftier thought, a soothing moral, a note of lyricism, and above all with an unshaken faith in the new day for which he works. The eighth and ninth poems of the first book of his "Satires" are good illustrations of this side of his work:

Nor does he always face tough times with just resignation. Sometimes, he confronts the hostile world with a critique as sharp as Juvenal’s. He boldly challenges every idol that his enemies admire, displaying a daring that rivals Byron. Often, he strikes at society with bitter discontent and fights back like Hipponax. Occasionally, he even seems to channel the bitterness of Swift. But then he quickly puts down his whip and rises above his sarcasm with a higher thought, a comforting lesson, a lyrical note, and above all, with an unwavering belief in the new day he’s striving for. The eighth and ninth poems of the first book of his "Satires" are great examples of this aspect of his work:

8

The lazy drones! The frogs! The locusts!
Big men! Politicians! Men who draw
Their learning from the thoughtless journals!
The lazy drones! The frogs! The locusts!
Big shots! Politicians! People who get
Their knowledge from mindless magazines!

A crowd of stupid, haughty blockheads!
Unworthily, thy name is set
By each as target for blind blows;
A crowd of foolish, arrogant idiots!
Your name is used unfairly
By everyone as a target for reckless attacks;

But forward still thy steps thou leadest,
Up toward the high bell-tower above,
And climbest: Spaces spread about thee,
But still you move forward,
Up toward the tall bell tower above,
And climb: Spaces spread around you,

And at thy feet, a world of scorners.
Though thou rainest not the godsent manna,
A great Life-giver still, thou tollest
And at your feet, a world of critics.
Even if you don’t rain down the heavenly bread,
A great Life-giver still, you work.

With a new bell a new-born creed.
With a new bell comes a new belief.

9

Aye! Break the tyrant's hated chains!
But with their breaking go not drunk!
The world is always slaves and lords:
Sure! Here’s the updated text:

Though free, chain-bound your life must be;
Other kinds of chains are there
For you: Kneel down! For lo, I bring them!
Yeah! Break the tyrant's hated chains!
But don’t get too caught up when you do!
The world is always made up of slaves and lords:

They fit you, redeemers or redeemed!
Bind with these chains your golden youth;
I bring you cares and sacrifices.
Even though free, your life must be bound;
Other types of chains exist for you:
Kneel down! For look, I bring them!

And you shall call them Truth and Beauty,
Modesty, Knowledge, Discipline!
To one command obey last, first,
They fit you, saviors or saved!
Bind these chains to your golden youth;
I bring you worries and sacrifices.

The world's great laws, and men, and nations.
And you will call them Truth and Beauty,
Modesty, Knowledge, Discipline!
To one command, obey last, first,

One of his "Hundred Voices" has something of this satiric note. It is a blow against a worthless pretender of the art of verse, who courts popularity with strains not worthy of the sacred Muse. Palamas, acting with greater wisdom than Pope, does not give the name of this unknown pretender:
The world’s significant laws, people, and countries.

Bad? Would that thou wert bad; but something worse thou art:
Thou stretchedst an unworthy hand to the sacred lyre,
And the untaught mob took thy reeling in the dust
For the true song of golden wings; and thou didst take
Thy seat close by the poet's side so thoughtlessly,
And none dared rise and come to drag thee thence away.
And see, instead of scorning thee, the just was angry;
Yet, even his verse's arrow is for thee a glory!

One of his "Hundred Voices" has a satirical tone. It's a jab at a worthless wannabe poet, who seeks fame with verses unworthy of the sacred Muse. Palamas, showing more wisdom than Pope, doesn’t reveal the name of this unknown pretender:

In tracing the great life influences of our poet, we must not pass over the loss of his third child, "the child without a peer," as he says in one of his poems addressed to his wife, "who changed the worldly air about us into divine nectar, a worthy offering to the spotless-white light of Olympus." To this loss, the poet has never reconciled himself. The sorrow finds expression in direct or covert strains in every work he has written. But its lasting monument was created soon after the child's death. A collection of poems, entitled The Grave, entirely devoted to his memory, is overflowing with an unique intensity of feeling. The poems are composed in short quatrains of a slowly moving rhythm restrained by frequent pauses and occasional metrical irregularities, and thus they reflect with faithfulness the paternal agony with which they are filled. They belong to the earlier works of the poet, but they disclose great lyric power and are the first deep notes of the poet's genius. A few lines from the dedication follow:
Bad? I wish you were just bad; but you're something worse:
You reached for the sacred lyre with unworthy hands,
And the clueless crowd mistook your stumble in the dirt
For the true song of golden wings; and you casually took
Your place beside the poet, without a thought,
And no one had the courage to step up and pull you away.
Instead of scorn, the just were angry;
Yet, even the arrow of his verse is a glory for you!

The Grave

Neither with iron,
Nor with gold,
Nor with the colors
That the painters scatter,

In exploring the major influences in our poet's life, we can't overlook the loss of his third child, "the child without a peer," as he refers to in one of his poems to his wife, "who transformed the worldly air around us into divine nectar, a fitting tribute to the pure, white light of Olympus." The poet has never come to terms with this loss. The grief can be seen either openly or subtly in every piece he has written. However, the lasting tribute was created soon after the child's death. A collection of poems called The Grave, dedicated entirely to his memory, is filled with a unique intensity of emotion. The poems are written in short quatrains with a slow, measured rhythm, punctuated by frequent pauses and occasional irregularities, which faithfully reflect the father's anguish that permeates them. These belong to the poet's earlier works but reveal significant lyrical power and are the first profound expressions of his genius. Here are a few lines from the dedication:

Nor with marble
Carved with art,
Your little house I built
For you to dwell for ever;
Not with iron,
Nor with gold,
Nor with the colors
That artists use,

With spirit charms alone
I raised it in a land
That knows no matter nor
The withering touch of Time.
Nor with marble
Skillfully carved,
Did I build your little house
For you to live in forever;

With all my tears,
With all my blood,
I founded it
And built its vault....
With only spirit charms
I brought it to life in a space
That is untouched by matter or
The fading grasp of Time.

In another poem, in similar strains, he paints the ominous tranquility with which the child's birth and parting were attended:
With all my tears,
With all my blood,
I created it
And built its roof....

Tranquilly, silently,
Thirsting for our kisses,
Unknown you glided
Into our bosom;

In another poem, with a similar tone, he describes the unsettling calm that surrounded the child's arrival and farewell:

Even the heavy winter
Suddenly smiled
Tranquilly, silently,
But to receive you;
Calmly, quietly,
Longing for our kisses,
Unknown, you glided
Into our embrace;

Tranquilly, silently,
The breeze caressed you,
O Sunlight of Night
And Dream of the Day;
Even the harsh winter
Suddenly smiled
Peacefully, quietly,
Just to greet you;

Tranquilly, silently,
Our home was gladdened
With sweetness of amber
With your grace magnetic;
Peacefully, quietly,
The breeze touched you,
O Night's Sunlight
And Day's Dream;

Tranquilly, silently,
Our home beheld you,
Beauty of the morning star,
Light of the star of evening;
Calmly, quietly,
Our home was filled
With the warmth of amber
And your magnetic grace;

Tranquilly, silently,
Little moons, mouth and eyes,
One dawn you vanished
Upon a cruel deathbed;
Calmly, quietly,
Our home watched you,
Beauty of the morning star,
Light of the evening star;

Tranquilly, silently,
In spite of all our kisses,
Away you wandered
Torn from our bosom;
Calmly, quietly,
Little moons, mouth and eyes,
One dawn you vanished
On a cruel deathbed;

Tranquilly, silently,
O word, O verse, O rime,
Your witherless flowers
Sow on his grave faith-shaking.
Calmly, quietly,
Despite all our kisses,
You drifted away,
Taken from our embrace;

In another poem reminiscent of Tibullean tenderness, the corners of the deserted home, in which the child, during his life, had lingered to play, laugh, or weep, converse with each other about their absent guest:
Calmly, quietly,
O word, O verse, O rhyme,
Your eternal flowers
Sow on his grave, shaking faith.

Things living weep for you,
And lifeless things are mourning;
The corners, too, forlorn,
Remember you with longing:

In another poem that echoes Tibullean warmth, the corners of the empty house, where the child had spent time playing, laughing, or crying, talk among themselves about their missing guest:

"One evening, angry here he sat,
And slept in bitterness."
"Here, often he sat listening
Enchanted to the tale."
Everything that’s alive is mourning for you,
And even the inanimate things are grieving;
The corners feel sad too,
Remembering you with longing:

"Here, I beheld with pride
The grace of Love half-naked;
An empty bed and stripped
Is all that now is left me."
"One evening, he sat here, upset,
And fell asleep in his bitterness."
"He often sat here, listening
Captivated by the story."

"I always looked for him;
He held a book; how often
He sat by me to read
With singing tongue its pages!"
"Here, I looked on with pride
At the beauty of Love partially revealed;
An empty bed and stripped
Is all I have left now."

"What is this pile of toys?
Why are they piled before me
As if I were a grave?
Are they his little playthings?
"I always looked for him;
He held a book; how often
He sat beside me to read
With his melodic voice gracing the pages!"

"The little man comes not;
For death with early frost
Has nipped his little dreams
And chilled his little doings."
"What’s with this pile of toys?
Why are they stacked in front of me
As if I were a grave?
Are these his little playthings?"

"His little sword is idle,
And here has come to rest."
"And here his little ship
Without its captain waits."
"The little guy isn't coming;
Because death with its early frost
Has crushed his little dreams
And frozen his small actions."

"To me, they brought him sick
And took him away extinguished."
"They watered me with tears
And perfumed me with incense."
"His tiny sword is useless,
And here it has come to a halt."
"And here his little ship
Awaits without its captain."

"The dead child's taper burns
Consuming and consumed."
"The tempest wildly beats
Upon the doors and windows,
And deep into our breasts
The tempest's moan is echoed."
"They brought him to me sick
And took him away lifeless."
"They soaked me with tears
And covered me with incense."

And all the house about
For thee, my child, is groaning ...
"The dead child's candle burns
Consuming and being consumed."
"The storm rages fiercely
Against the doors and windows,
And deep within our hearts
The storm's lament echoes."

Greece seems to encompass the physical world with which Palamas has come in contact. He does not seem to have travelled beyond its borders, and even within them, he has moved little about. With him scenery must grow with age before it speaks to his heart. Fleeting impressions are of little value, and the appearance of things without the forces of tradition and experience behind it does not attract him:
And the whole house around
For you, my child, is aching ...

The World Beyond Greece

Others, who wander far in distant lands may seek
On Alpine Mountains high the magic Edelweis;
I am an Element Immovable; each year,
April delights me in my garden, and the May
In my own village.
O lakes and fiords, O palaces of France and shrines
And harbors, Northern Lights and tropic flowers and forests,
O wonders of art, and beauties of the world unthought,—
A little Island here I love that always lies before me.

Greece seems to cover the physical world that Palamas has encountered. He doesn't seem to have traveled beyond its borders, and even within them, he hasn't explored much. For him, scenery must develop over time before it resonates with his heart. Quick impressions don't hold much value, and he isn't drawn to the appearance of things without the support of tradition and experience behind them:

We must not think, however, that the spirit of Palamas rests within the narrow confines of his native land. On the contrary, it knows no chains and travels freely about the earth. He is a faithful servant of "Melete," the Muse of contemplative study, a service which is very seldom liked by Modern Greeks. In his preface to his collection of critical essays entitled Grammata he rebukes his fellow countrymen for this: "On an old attic vase," he says, "stand the three original Muses, the ones that were first worshipped, even before the Nine, who are now world-known: Mneme, Melete, Aoide—Memory, Study, Song. With the first and last, we have cultivated our acquaintance; and never must we show any contempt for the fruit of our love for them. Only with the middle one, we are not on good terms. She seems to be somewhat inaccessible, and she does not fill our eyes enough to attract us. We have always looked, and now still we look, for what is easiest or handiest. Is that, I wonder, a fault of our race or of our age? And is the French philosopher Fouillée somewhat right when in his book on the Psychology of Races he counts among our defects our aversion to great and above all endless labors?" That Palamas is not subject to this fault, one has only to glance at his works to be convinced. There is hardly an important force in the world's thought and expression whether past or present, to which Palamas is a stranger. The literatures of Europe, America, or Asia are an open book for him. The pulses of the world's artists, the intellectual battles of the philosophers, the fears and hopes of the social unrest, the religious emancipation of our day, the far reaching conflict of individual and state, in short, all events of importance in the social, political, spiritual, literary, and artistic life are familiar sources of inspiration for him. With all, he shows the lofty spirit of a worshipper of greatness and depth wherever he finds them. Tolstoi or Aeschylus, Goethe or Dante, Ibsen or Poe, Swinburne or Walt Whitman, Leopardi or Rabelais, Hugo or Carlyle, Serbian Folk Lore or the Bible, Hindu legends or Italian songs, Antiquity or Middle Ages, Renaissance or Modernity, any nation or any lore are objects worthy of study and stores of wisdom for him. Indeed, very few living poets could be compared with him in scholarship and learning.
While others travel to distant places in search of
the magical Edelweiss in the high Alpine Mountains,
I am a constant presence; every year,
April brings me joy in my garden, and May
in my own village.
Oh, lakes and fjords, oh, palaces of France and shrines
and harbors, Northern Lights, tropical flowers, and forests,
oh, wonders of art and unimaginable beauties of the world—
there's a little island here I love that is always in front of me.

Nor does he lift his voice only for individual or national throbbings. He sings of the great and noble whenever he sees it. One of his best lyric creations is a song of praise to the valor of the champions of Transvaal's freedom, his "Hymn to the Valiant," the first of the collection entitled "From the Hymns and Wraths," a paean that has been most highly lauded by Professor D.C. Hesseling of the University of Leyden (Nederlandsche Spectator, March, 1901). Here is a fragment of it, the words which the Muse addresses to the poet:

We shouldn’t think that the spirit of Palamas is limited to his homeland. On the contrary, it knows no boundaries and roams freely around the world. He is a loyal follower of "Melete," the Muse of thoughtful study, a pursuit that is rarely valued by Modern Greeks. In his preface to his collection of critical essays titled Grammata, he criticizes his fellow countrymen for this: "On an old attic vase," he says, "stand the three original Muses, the ones that were first honored, even before the Nine, who are now widely recognized: Mneme, Melete, Aoide—Memory, Study, Song. We have gotten to know the first and the last; we must never disrespect the fruits of our love for them. But we haven't cultivated a good relationship with the middle one. She seems a bit out of reach, and she doesn't catch our attention enough to draw us in. We have always looked, and continue to look, for what's easiest or most convenient. Is that, I wonder, a flaw of our race or of our time? And is the French philosopher Fouillée somewhat correct when he points out in his book on the Psychology of Races that among our shortcomings is our dislike for significant and especially endless labors?" That Palamas doesn’t share this flaw is clear from even a brief glance at his works. There is hardly a significant idea in the history of thought and expression, whether past or present, that Palamas isn’t familiar with. The literatures of Europe, America, or Asia are an open book to him. He feels the heartbeat of the world's artists, engages in the intellectual debates of philosophers, understands the fears and hopes of social movements, the religious awakening of our times, and the ongoing conflict between the individual and the state. In short, all significant events in social, political, spiritual, literary, and artistic life are wellspring sources of inspiration for him. He embodies the noble spirit of someone who appreciates greatness and depth wherever he finds them. Tolstoy or Aeschylus, Goethe or Dante, Ibsen or Poe, Swinburne or Walt Whitman, Leopardi or Rabelais, Hugo or Carlyle, Serbian Folklore or the Bible, Hindu legends or Italian songs, Antiquity or the Middle Ages, Renaissance or Modernity—any nation or any lore offers valuable insights and wisdom for him. Truly, very few living poets can match him in knowledge and scholarship.

... Awake! Thou art not maker of statues!
Awake! For songs thou singest!
And song is not for ever
The heart's lament
To fading leaves of autumn,
Nor the secret speech thou speakest,
A Soul of Dream, to the shadows of Night.

Nor does he raise his voice only for personal or national feelings. He sings of the great and noble whenever he sees it. One of his best lyrical creations is a song honoring the bravery of the champions of Transvaal's freedom, his "Hymn to the Valiant," the first in the collection titled "From the Hymns and Wraths," a tribute that has been highly praised by Professor D.C. Hesseling of the University of Leyden (Nederlandsche Spectator, March, 1901). Here is a fragment of it, the words that the Muse speaks to the poet:

For suddenly there is a clash and groaning!
The joy of birds sea-beaten,
In storms of Elements
And storms of Nations!
Song is, too,
The Marathonian Triumpher!
Over the ashes of Sodoma,
It is blown by the mouth of wrath!
... Wake up! You’re not just a sculptor!
Wake up! Because you sing songs!
And songs don’t last forever
The heart's sorrow
To the fading leaves of autumn,
Nor the secret words you share,
A Soul of Dream, to the shadows of Night.

Something great and something beautiful,
Something from far away,
Travelling Glory brings thee
On her sky-wandering pinions.
For suddenly there’s a clash and a groan!
The joy of birds, battered by the sea,
In the storms of nature
And the storms of nations!
Song is, too,
The triumphant victor of Marathon!
Over the ashes of Sodom,
It’s carried by the breath of anger!

Glory has come! On her wings and on her feet,
Signs of her wanderings are shown,
Dust gold-loaded and distant;
And she brings aloes blossoming, first-seen,
From the land that feeds the Kaffir's flocks.
Something great and something beautiful,
Something from far away,
Traveling Glory brings you
On her sky-wandering wings.

In your aged summers,
A new-born spring has spread!
From North to South,
The Atlantic Dragon groans a groan first-heard;
To the African lakes and forests,
His groan has spread and echoed;
From the Red Sea, a Lamia's palace,
To the foam-shaped breast of the White Sea,
A Nereid's realm.
Glory has arrived! On her wings and on her feet,
Signs of her travels are visible,
Dust filled with gold and distant;
And she brings blooming aloes, freshly seen,
From the land that feeds the Kaffir's herds.

Thinly the plants were growing
On the bosom of the ancient Motherland;
Winds carried away the seed
And brought it to the Libyan fields
And scattered it into deep ravines
And on the lofty mountain lawns.
In your past summers,
A new spring has come!
From North to South,
The Atlantic Dragon lets out a groan that’s never been heard before;
To the lakes and forests of Africa,
His groan has spread and echoed;
From the Red Sea, a Lamia's palace,
To the frothy shores of the White Sea,
A Nereid's domain.

A new blood filled the herbs,
And even the strong-stemmed plants
Waxed stronger.
Men war-glad are risen!
And the waterfalls roar
In the mountain's heart;
Men war-glad are risen
Like diamonds rare to behold
That the earth begets!
Thinly the plants were growing
On the embrace of the ancient homeland;
Winds carried away the seeds
And brought them to the Libyan fields
And scattered them into deep ravines
And on the high mountain meadows.

You know them, heights, winds, horizons,
High tides and murmurings of restless waters,
Golden fountains, that shall become
Their crowns!
And you, O gold-built mountain passes,
Castles fit for them, you know them;
Their fame, thou heraldest with pride
From thy verdant distant country
To Europe Imperial,
O Africa, O slave unknown!
A new vitality filled the herbs,
And even the sturdy plants
Grew even stronger.
Warriors eager for battle have risen!
And the waterfalls roar
In the heart of the mountain;
Warriors eager for battle have risen
Like rare diamonds to see
That the earth produces!

And first of all thou knowest,
O heartless tamer of continents and races,
Rider of Ocean's Bucephaluses,
Thou knowest the worth of the few,
Who dare live free ...
You know the heights, winds, and horizons,
The high tides and whispers of restless waters,
The golden fountains that will become
Their crowns!
And you, O majestic mountain passes,
Castles worthy of them, you know them;
Their fame, you proudly announce
From your lush distant land
To Imperial Europe,
O Africa, O unknown slave!

Within the limits of a general introduction it would be difficult to enter every nook and corner of the poet's world. We must even pass over some of the most potent influences of his life. The national dreams of the Modern Greeks have a splendid dwelling in the thought of Palamas, who follows with restlessness his people's woes and exults in their joys. A group of poems dedicated to the "Land that Rose in Arms" and published in the last volume of the poet's work, the Town and Wilderness, form his noblest patriotic expression. The present world-conflict has naturally stirred him to new compositions, of which his "Europe" is preëminently noteworthy as illustrating faithfully the various aspects of the poet's genius. This poem appeared first in the Noumas, an Athenian periodical, and was then published in the last volume of the poet's works, the Altars.[2]
And first of all you know,
O heartless tamer of continents and races,
Rider of the ocean's Bucephaluses,
You know the value of the few,
Who dare to live free ...

Deer-like the East pants terror-struck! The West,
A flame ablaze that leaps amid the skies!
Nations are wolves! and Hatreds are afoot,
Whetting their bayonets!

Within the limits of a general introduction, it would be difficult to explore every aspect of the poet's world. We must even skip some of the most significant influences in his life. The national aspirations of the Modern Greeks find a powerful home in the thoughts of Palamas, who restlessly follows his people's struggles and celebrates their joys. A collection of poems dedicated to the "Land that Rose in Arms" and published in the last volume of the poet's work, the Town and Wilderness, represents his greatest patriotic expression. The current global conflict has naturally inspired him to create new works, among which his poem "Europe" stands out as a notable illustration of the different facets of the poet's genius. This poem first appeared in the Noumas, an Athenian periodical, and was later published in the last volume of the poet's works, the Altars. [2]

Europe

I. THE WAR

With force gigantic, lo, the bursting forth
Of the barbarian sweeps on, age-wrought;
Oceans are cleft and swallow Gorgon-ships,
Castles of might afloat!
Like deer in the East, fear fills the air! The West,
A blazing fire leaping in the sky!
Nations are like wolves, and hatreds are rising,
Sharpening their bayonets!

What sorcerers, in Earth's deep bosom buried,
Beat into shape the metal? For what kings
Slave they? What crowns forge they? The tower-ships,
The ports, the oceans quake!
With great force, look, the barbarian surge moves forward, shaped by time;
Oceans split and swallow Gorgon-ships,
Mighty castles afloat!

Lovingly the dream born of dream flies high
Air wandering amid the eagles; yet
O victory! Lord of the azure, man
Spreads horror even there.
What sorcerers lie buried deep in the Earth,
Shaping the metal? For which kings
Do they labor? What crowns do they forge? The tower-ships,
The ports, the oceans tremble!

Methinks the Niebelungen of the Night
Startle sun's radiance ... And ye, the Rhine's
Water-born Nymphs, are lashed and swept away
By monstrous hurricanes.
Lovingly, the dream that arose from a dream soars high,
Drifting through the air like eagles; yet
Oh victory! Ruler of the sky, humanity
Spreads fear even there.

Siegfried, the hero of the golden hair,
Makes men and elements before him kneel.
War is the arbiter of rising worlds;
And Violence, arbitress.
I believe the Niebelungen of the Night
Startle the sun's light ... And you, the Rhine's
Water-born Nymphs, are whipped away
By monstrous storms.

Franks, Anglo-Saxons, Alemanni, Hungars!
Europe, a viper! And the armies, dragons!
Here, Uhlans are destroyers pitiless;
And there, the Cossacks' bands!
Siegfried, the hero with golden hair,
Makes men and forces bow before him.
War decides the fate of emerging worlds;
And Violence has the upper hand.

From endless sweeps of steppes, the Slav blows forth
An endless squall, the havoc's ruthless vow!
Liberty is the phantom; and the slave,
The stern reality.
Franks, Anglo-Saxons, Alemanni, Hungarians!
Europe, a snake! And the armies, monsters!
Here, Uhlans are ruthless destroyers;
And there, the Cossacks' groups!

Helvetians, Scandinavians, Latins, Russians,
The martyr Pole, heroic Flanders' land,
All, small and great, forward to battle rush
With one man's violence!
From endless grasslands, the Slav sends forth
An unrelenting storm, a vow of chaos!
Freedom is just a ghost; and the slave,
The harsh truth.

Beating thy breast, thou clingest to thy throne,
Storm-wrapped, O worshipper of gods that fade,
Hypatia thou, the Frenchman's ruling queen,
Blood-bred Democracy!
Helvetians, Scandinavians, Latins, Russians,
The martyr Pole, heroic land of Flanders,
All, big and small, rush into battle
With collective fury!

The Vosgic towers tremble! And God's wrath,
Valkyrie, the awful Nymph, wind-ridden sweeps,
A rider pitiless that threatens thee,
O Paris noble-born!
Beating your breast, you cling to your throne,
Storm-wrapped, O worshipper of fading gods,
Hypatia, you the ruling queen of the French,
Blood-born Democracy!

Our age's honored prophet, Tamerlan!
A shadow's dream, Messiah of sweet Peace!
Enthroned in judgment stands America.
While from far Asia's depths,
The Vosgic towers shake! And God's anger,
Valkyrie, the fearsome Nymph, swept by the wind,
A merciless rider that threatens you,
O noble Paris!

The Indian hermits and gold-gatherers
With yellow Mongols are afoot! With them,
The sons of Oceania, Kerman,
And Africa; Semites,
Our era's respected prophet, Tamerlane!
A shadow's dream, Savior of gentle Peace!
America stands in judgment.
While from the distant depths of Asia,

War-glad Turanians and Aryans,
Lands that the Adriatic kisses, Rumans,
Our brother Serb, a wall!—Let Austria's
Cataract burst and roar!
The Indian hermits and gold-gatherers
With yellow Mongols are on the move! With them,
The sons of Oceania, Kerman,
And Africa; Semites,

Vosges and Carpathians and Balkans quake!
Ridges and mountains tremble! The oceans roar!
Five Continents' passionate wraths and hatreds
Revel in festival!
War-hungry Turanians and Aryans,
Lands touched by the Adriatic, Rumans,
Our brother Serb, a barrier!—Let Austria's
Cataract crash and thunder!

But lo, the Briton with sea-battling sceptre
That binds the restless waves to his command—
What Caesars' fetters forges he anew
Upon the island rock?
Vosges, Carpathians, and Balkans, shake!
Ridges and mountains shudder! The oceans roar!
The passionate wrath and hatred of five continents
Celebrate in a festival!

And there the Turk, who holds thee with dog's teeth
And makes of thee a valley of sad tears,
O paradisial land of old Ionia;
And here, our Mother Greece,
But look, the Briton with his sea-fighting scepter
That commands the restless waves—
What new chains does he forge
On the island rock?

Dream-weaver of unending laurel-wreaths
Beside her Cretan helmsman and her king!
Wax-pale, the world stands listening and holds
Its breath, benumbed with fright!
And there the Turk, who grips you with a vicious hold
And turns you into a place of deep sorrow,
O paradise of ancient Ionia;
And here, our Mother Greece,

But lo, the thinker, whatever is his soul,
Whatever race has given him his blood,
Watches from his unruffled haunts calm-wrapped
And he stirs not.
Dream-weaver of endless laurel wreaths
Next to her Cretan helmsman and her king!
Wax-pale, the world stands still, listening and holding
Its breath, paralyzed with fear!

II. THE THINKER

With pity's quivering and terror's chill,
In tears and ruins, he plucks a fruitful joy
From the great Drama, watching thoughtfully
The hidden law.
But look, the thinker, no matter his essence,
No matter which race has given him his blood,
Observes from his serene, peaceful place
And he does not move.

And lo, the thinker, whatever is his soul,
Whatever race has given him his blood,
Abides in his unruffled haunts calm-wrapped
And meditates:
With the tremor of pity and the chill of fear,
In tears and destruction, he takes a joyful moment
From the grand play, observing carefully
The unseen truth.

Old age? No! Nor the youth of a new life.
All is the same, Europe and Law, the shark!
And never changes—hear ye not?—the march
Of history.
And look, the thinker, no matter his essence,
No matter what race has given him his blood,
Stays in his peaceful places, wrapped in calm
And reflects:

A splinter in the powerful's hands, O powerless,
Yet sometimes—comfort thee—his mate and friend!
The powerful's blind hand even thou, O Science,
Often shalt be.
Old age? No! Nor the youth of a new life.
Everything remains the same, Europe and Law, the shark!
And it never changes—don't you hear?—the march
Of history.

Is War the Father of all things? And is
The lava messenger of lusty growth?
How can the creature grow from monster seed?
Who knows? Pass on!
A splinter in the hands of the powerful, O powerless,
Yet sometimes—take comfort—his partner and friend!
The powerful's blind hand will often be yours, O Science,
As well.

Even if some great dream be born of flesh
And the wroth tempest fling a new world forth,
Even if over the tumult Europe stand
United, one;
Is war the source of everything? And is
The lava a sign of strong growth?
How can a creature emerge from a monstrous origin?
Who knows? Move on!

And if the state of a new people rise
Founded upon the ruins of the world,
Still always thou wilt burn, O Fury's torch,
Amid the darkness.
Even if some amazing dream comes from the flesh
And the fierce storm brings a new world to life,
Even if Europe stands over the chaos
United as one;

Even if thou wilt come to states in ruins
And empty thrones, O power of juster race,
Always the tender and the harsh shall be;
Shepherd and flocks!
And if a new nation emerges
Built on the remains of the old world,
You will always shine bright, O Flame of Rage,
In the shadows.

Unless, O man, something is destined thee
That thou, O History, foretellest not:
An evolution unbelievable
To gazing worlds.
Even if you come to ruined states
And empty thrones, O power of a juster race,
There will always be the gentle and the harsh;
Shepherd and flocks!

The poet: Miracle-working lo, the seed
Of blessed dreams, sown in his heart, takes roots;
He is like mind entranced in ecstasy,
Born upon wings!
Unless, man, something is meant for you
That you, History, do not predict:
An unbelievable evolution
To watching worlds.

III. THE POET

Under his wings, all things are images
Of creatures beautiful for him to sing,
Whether they are roses April-born
Or warring legions!
The poet: Look at the miracle-working seed
Of blessed dreams, planted in his heart, takes root;
He is like a mind captivated in ecstasy,
Born on wings!

And neither the war's roaring gun nor yet
The river of red blood swift-flowing on
Can make the flower fade that fills my breast
With fragrances!
Under his wings, everything reflects
The beautiful creatures he sings about,
Whether they are roses born in April
Or battling armies!

I am the faithful friend of song; therefore,
I tremble not like child before a blackman;
Midst blood and flames and lashings horrible,
I bring thee, Love!
And neither the sound of the war's gunfire nor
The rushing river of red blood
Can make the flower in my heart fade
With its sweet scents!

Thy footprints mark a shining trail of lights
New-risen, guiding with their gleams my steps;
The restless gambol of thy fire, Dawn's smile
Upon my night.
I am the loyal friend of music; so,
I don't shake like a child in front of a scary figure;
Among blood, fire, and terrible beatings,
I bring you, Love!

Thine eyes, O Fountainhead of Beauty's stream,
Mirror within them all things beautiful:
And lo, the eagles of the Czars, on wings
Sky-roaming, sail.
Your footprints create a shining path of lights
Newly risen, guiding my steps with their glow;
The playful flicker of your fire, Dawn's smile
Upon my night.

The war, when thine eyes look on it, becomes
Under the magic of thy glance pure wine
Of holiness. The German is the wonder
Of deed and thought;
Your eyes, O Source of Beauty's flow,
Reflect within them everything beautiful:
And look, the eagles of the Czars, flying high
Through the skies, glide.

Where Tolstoi lived, all things are justly blessed;
Where Goethe dwelt all things are light and wisdom;
And yet my heart's pure love flows now for thee,
For thee, O France!
The war, when your eyes see it, becomes
Under the magic of your gaze pure wine
Of holiness. The German is the wonder
Of action and thought;

Though first I sucked my god-sprung mother's milk,
Still thou wert later manna unto me,
Desert-born, joy of mine and guide and teacher,
My second mother.
Where Tolstoy lived, everything is truly blessed;
Where Goethe resided, everything is bright and wise;
And yet my heart's pure love now flows for you,
For you, O France!

On thy world-trodden earth, I have not stood;
Nor didst thou bathe me, Seine, in thy cold waters;
Yet is thy vision light unto my song,
O second mother!
Though at first I drank my divine mother's milk,
Later, you became my nourishment,
Born in the wilderness, my joy, my guide, and my teacher,
My second mother.

O Celtic oak-trees and Galatian-born
White lilies in lyric Paris blossoming,
With Hugo and with thee, O Lamartine,
Revels and wings!
On your well-worn earth, I have not stood;
Nor did you wash me, Seine, in your cold waters;
Yet your vision is light to my song,
O second mother!

Dante and Nietzsche, Ibsen, Shakespeare, all,
Poured wine for me with their thrice-holy hands
Into thy gleaming cup of gold and bade
Me rise on high.
O Celtic oak trees and Galatian-born
White lilies blooming in lyrical Paris,
With Hugo and with you, O Lamartine,
Celebrations and wings!

A child: And thou didst flash before me first,
Tearing the maps of dazzled Europe's lands
With the world's Mirabeaus and with the world's
Napoleons.
Dante and Nietzsche, Ibsen, Shakespeare, all,
Poured wine for me with their sacred hands
Into your shining cup of gold and told
Me to rise up high.

Thou art not for the gnawing worm of graves.
Thy gods still live with thee, Hypatia!
Glory and Victory may dwell with thee,
Democracy!
A child: And you appeared before me first,
Ripping apart the maps of amazed Europe’s lands
With the world’s Mirabeaus and with the world's
Napoleons.

From the number of the life influences which we have scantily traced in Palamas' work we may conclude that he is a true representative of the great world and of the age in which he lives. Loving and true to his immediate surroundings, he does not localize himself in them, nor does he shut his thought within his personal feelings and experiences, but he travels far and wide with the thought and action of the universal man and fills his life with the life of his age.
You are not meant for the devouring worm of graves.
Your gods still live with you, Hypatia!
Glory and Victory can still be with you,
Democracy!

It is exactly this universalism that makes The Twelve Words of the Gypsy his best expression and at the same time the most difficult to understand thoroughly. The poem is reflective both of the growth of the poet himself and of the development of the human spirit throughout the ages with the history and land of Hellas as its natural background. Consequently, its message is both subjective and objective. Although differently treated, the theme is the same as that of the "Ascrean" which appears in the latter part of Life Immovable and which may be considered as a prelude to The Twelve Words of the Gypsy. There is a flood of feeling and a cosmic imagery throughout, but they only form the gorgeous palace within which Thought dwells in full magnificence and mystic dimness. "As the thread of my song," says the poet in his preface, "unrolled itself, I saw that my heart was full of mind, that its pulses were of thought, that my feeling had something musical and difficult to measure, and that I accepted the rapture of contemplation just as a lad accepts his sweetheart's kiss. And then I saw that I am the poet, surely a poet among many—a mere soldier of the verse, but always the poet who desires to close within his verse the longings and questions of the universal man and the cares and fanaticism of the citizen. I may not be a worthy citizen. But it cannot be that I am the poet of myself alone; I am the poet of my age and of my race; and what I hold within me cannot be divided from the world without."

From the few life influences we've briefly explored in Palamas' work, we can conclude that he genuinely represents the broader world and the era he's part of. He's loving and connected to his immediate surroundings, but he doesn't limit himself to them, nor does he confine his thoughts to his personal feelings and experiences. Instead, he engages deeply with the ideas and actions of all humanity and enriches his life with the experiences of his time.

It’s precisely this universal quality that makes The Twelve Words of the Gypsy his best work and, at the same time, the hardest to fully grasp. The poem reflects both the growth of the poet himself and the evolution of the human spirit over the ages, with the history and landscape of Greece as its natural backdrop. As a result, its message is both personal and universal. Although approached differently, the theme is consistent with that of the "Ascrean," which appears in the latter part of Life Immovable and can be seen as a precursor to The Twelve Words of the Gypsy. There’s an abundance of emotion and cosmic imagery throughout, but they only create the stunning palace where Thought resides in all its grandeur and mystery. "As the thread of my song," the poet writes in his preface, "unwound itself, I realized that my heart was full of thought, that its rhythms were of ideas, that my feelings had something musical and hard to quantify, and that I embraced the joy of contemplation just as a boy accepts a kiss from his sweetheart. And then I understood that I am the poet, surely a poet among many—a simple soldier of verse, but always the poet who wishes to encapsulate in his lines the longings and questions of universal humanity and the concerns and passions of the citizen. I might not be a model citizen. But I cannot be just the poet of myself; I am the poet of my time and my people; and what I carry within me is inseparable from the world around me."

Washington, D.C.

July 5, 1919.

Washington, D.C.

In Palamas, we have found every trait of the Greek character: He is religious and superstitious; a skeptic, a pagan, and a pantheist.... He is a poet and a philosopher.... He abandons himself to every impulse of the Greek soul. But he is always fond of drawing back, of concentrating, of trying to encompass in a general form the sensations and ideas which sway him. His principal and latent care is to analyze himself and his world. A poet and a thinker, Palamas does not attract the multitudes.... With him everything is a mingling of lights and shadows.... But through his work Greece of today is most clearly set forth.

July 5, 1919.

LIFE IMMOVABLE

FIRST PART

Tigrane Yergate, "Le Mouvement litteraire grec; La Poesie." La Revue, June, 1903, vol. xlv, p. 717 f.
In Palamas, we see every aspect of the Greek character: He’s religious and superstitious; a skeptic, a pagan, and a pantheist. He’s a poet and a philosopher. He gives in to every impulse of the Greek soul. But he always loves to step back, to reflect, to try to capture the feelings and ideas that influence him in a broader way. His main and hidden focus is to understand himself and his world. A poet and a thinker, Palamas doesn’t draw in the masses. For him, everything is a mix of light and shadow. But through his work, contemporary Greece is shown most clearly.

With Life Immovable, the poetic genius of Kostes Palamas reaches its full strength. The poet, who, from his very first work, The Songs of my Country, had shown his power in selecting his sources of inspiration and in weaving the essence of purely national airs into his "light sketches of sea and olive groves and the various sunlit aspects of Greek life,"[3] continues to broaden his vision and art through an unquenchable eagerness for knowledge, for an understanding of things beautiful, whether present or past, concrete or abstract. He makes broad strides from his Hymn to Athena, to The Eyes of My Soul, Iambs and Anapests, and The Grave. In all "the pathetic and the common meet inseparably with an art exact and full of grace, an art that knows its purpose."[4] But in Life Immovable Palamas rises above the Hellenic horizon, and strikes the strings of the universal heart in the same degree as the towns of Patras, Missolonghi, and Athens expand into Greece and Greece into the world. After all there is both realism and symbolism in the fact that the first poem of the volume reflects the atmosphere of the poet's native town while one of the latter ones "The Ascrean" is filled with an all-including world-vision.
Tigrane Yergate, "The Greek Literary Movement; Poetry." The Review, June, 1903, vol. xlv, p. 717 f.

The present volume contains only the first half of Life Immovable. It consists of five collections of poems: The "Fatherlands," "The Return," "Fragments from the Song to the Sun," "Verses of a Familiar Tune," and "The Palm Tree." On the whole, a careful study of these collections would furnish the key to an adequate understanding of the rest of the poet's works for which these poems are faithful preludes. For this reason I am tempted to give an analysis of the translated parts as a guide to their understanding. But it is by no means my wish to lay down a fast rule; poetry is no exact science and there should be always ample room for freedom of suggestion and of view.

With Life Immovable, Kostes Palamas’s poetic genius is at its peak. The poet, who, from his very first work, The Songs of My Country, demonstrated his ability to choose inspiring sources and weave the essence of purely national themes into his "light sketches of sea and olive groves and the various sunlit aspects of Greek life,"[3] continues to expand his vision and artistry through an insatiable desire for knowledge and an appreciation for beauty, whether it's present or past, tangible or abstract. He makes significant progress from his Hymn to Athena, to The Eyes of My Soul, Iambs and Anapests, and The Grave. In all of his work, "the pathetic and the common meet inseparably with an art exact and full of grace, an art that knows its purpose."[4] But in Life Immovable, Palamas transcends the Hellenic horizon, striking the chords of the universal heart just as the cities of Patras, Missolonghi, and Athens expand into Greece and Greece expands into the world. After all, it’s both realistic and symbolic that the first poem in the volume reflects the atmosphere of the poet's hometown while one of the later ones, "The Ascrean," is filled with a comprehensive world vision.

A series of sonnets, the "Fatherlands," make the opening of the book and, at the same time, symbolize most clearly the growth of our poet. Each sonnet describes a fatherland, adding another link to a chain of worlds that dawn, one after another, upon the poet's being. The first is Patras, his birthplace. Then follows Missolonghi with its calm lagoon and the haunts of his boyhood. The splendor of the violet-crowned city of Athens is succeeded by the island of Corfu, the cradle of the literary renaissance of Modern Hellenism, which again fades before the vision of Egypt, whence the earliest lights of civilization shone upon the land of the Greeks. Christianity in its extreme form of asceticism is brought forth from one of its strong citadels, Mt. Athos, the holy mountain of Greece, and a contrast is made between the "gleaming beauties of the world" and the utter absorption of the ascetic by the intangible world beyond. The vision of "Queen Hellas," the classic age of Greece, is followed by the conquering spirit of Hellenism spreading triumphantly from the democracies of Athens and Sparta to the Golden Gate of imperial Byzantium.

The current volume includes just the first half of Life Immovable. It features five collections of poems: "Fatherlands," "The Return," "Fragments from the Song to the Sun," "Verses of a Familiar Tune," and "The Palm Tree." Overall, a careful examination of these collections would provide the key to fully understanding the rest of the poet's works, which these poems introduce. For this reason, I'm tempted to offer an analysis of the translated sections as a guide for comprehension. However, I don't intend to establish a strict guideline; poetry isn't an exact science, and there should always be plenty of room for personal interpretation and perspective.

1. Fatherlands

But "imagination, like the Phaeacians' ship, rolls on," and the poet sings:

A series of sonnets, the "Fatherlands," opens the book and clearly symbolizes the growth of our poet. Each sonnet describes a homeland, adding another link to a chain of worlds that unfold, one after another, in the poet's consciousness. The first is Patras, his birthplace. Next is Missolonghi with its peaceful lagoon and the places of his childhood. The splendor of the violet-crowned city of Athens is followed by the island of Corfu, the birthplace of the literary renaissance of Modern Hellenism, which then gives way to the vision of Egypt, where the earliest lights of civilization illuminated the land of the Greeks. Christianity, in its most ascetic form, emerges from one of its strongholds, Mt. Athos, the holy mountain of Greece, contrasting the "gleaming beauties of the world" with the complete absorption of the ascetic in the intangible realm beyond. The vision of "Queen Hellas," the classic age of Greece, is succeeded by the triumphant spirit of Hellenism spreading from the democracies of Athens and Sparta to the Golden Gate of imperial Byzantium.

In my soul's depths loom many lands ...
And where the heavens mingle with the sea,
A path I seek for a sphere beyond ...

But "imagination, like the Phaeacians' ship, keeps moving," and the poet sings:

Oceans are crossed, ages are brought forth from the past, and continents are joined in making the poet's spirit. Finally even Earth becomes too narrow and the greater universe opens its gates to the ultimate fatherland, the elements of the world which will at the end absorb the being of the poet:
Deep inside me are many places ...
And where the sky meets the sea,
I'm looking for a path to a world beyond ...

Fatherlands! Air and earth and fire and water,
Elements indestructible, beginning
And end of life, first joy and last of mine,
You I shall find again when I pass on
To the grave's calm. The people of the dreams
Within me, airlike, unto air shall pass;
My reason, firelike, unto lasting fire;
My passions' craze unto the billows' madness.

Oceans are crossed, ages are brought forth from the past, and continents are joined in shaping the poet's spirit. Eventually, even Earth becomes too small, and the greater universe opens its gates to the ultimate homeland, the elements of the world that will ultimately absorb the poet's essence:

Even my dust-worn body, unto dust;
And I shall be again air, earth, fire, water;
And from the air of dreams, and from the flame
Of thought, and from the flesh that shall be dust,
Homelands! Air, earth, fire, and water,
Unbreakable elements, the beginning
And end of life, my first joy and my last,
I will find you again when I move on
To the peace of the grave. The people of the dreams
Inside me, like air, will turn into air;
My reasoning, like fire, into everlasting fire;
The madness of my passions into the chaos of waves.

And from the passions' sea, ever shall rise
A breath of sound like a soft lyre's complaint.
Even my tired body will return to dust;
And I will again become air, earth, fire, and water;
And from the air of dreams, and from the flame
Of thought, and from the flesh that will turn to dust,

The second collection of Life Immovable, entitled "The Return," is dedicated to the poet's country. It bears under its title the significant date of 1897, the year of the unfortunate Greco-Turkish war which ended disastrously for Greece and plunged the nation into despair. After the defeat, almost the whole world spoke of the Greeks as of a degenerate people beyond the hope of redemption. The sensitiveness of the race helped in rendering the gloom of disaster most depressing. For some time, even the Greeks began to resign themselves to their fate as a hopeless one. Palamas is one of the first to sound the reveille. He conceives of his collection of songs as an expression of faith in the country's future. With perfect love and assurance "he comes to place the crowns of Art" "dream-made and dream-engraved" upon her shattered throne....
And from the sea of emotions, a sound will always rise
Like a soft lament from a gentle lyre.

2. The Return

Only with harmony sublime and pure,
Which, though it rises over time and space,
Turns the world's ears to his native land,
The poet is the greatest patriot.

The second collection of Life Immovable, called "The Return," is dedicated to the poet's homeland. It features the notable date of 1897, the year of the unfortunate Greco-Turkish war that ended disastrously for Greece, leaving the nation in despair. After the defeat, almost everyone referred to the Greeks as a degenerate people with no hope for redemption. The sensitivity of the race made the gloom of the disaster even more crushing. For a while, even the Greeks started to accept their fate as hopeless. Palamas was one of the first to sound the wake-up call. He views his collection of songs as an expression of belief in the country's future. With deep love and confidence, "he comes to place the crowns of Art" "dream-made and dream-engraved" upon her broken throne....

Nevertheless even the poet's spirit cannot help reflecting the gloom through which it tries to rise. The general depression about him weighs upon him, too, in spite of his effort. This shadow haunts him constantly. Life becomes a Fairy, with a Fairy's dangerous charms and fearful mysteries. "Something like a madman pursues life." The poet hears this madman's falling steps and is horror-haunted:
Only with harmony that is beautiful and pure,
Which, as it goes beyond time and space,
Grabs the world's attention to his homeland,
The poet is the greatest patriot.

And lo, blood of my blood the madman was!
A past, ancestral, long-forgotten sin,
That bursting forth upon me, vampire-like,
Snatched from my hand the dewy crown of joy!

Nevertheless, even the poet's spirit can't avoid reflecting the gloom it tries to rise above. The overall sadness around him weighs on him as well, despite his efforts. This shadow constantly follows him. Life turns into a Fairy, with a Fairy's risky charms and frightening mysteries. "Something like a madman chases life." The poet hears this madman's stumbling steps and is filled with dread:

This madman grows from within the individual's and the nation's life. The wings of joys and dreams are clipped. One feels like a night-owl upon glorious ruins, the beauty of which makes the night even darker. Tradition, like a majestic temple, seems to choke life by its solemnity. The present, which seems to be symbolized by the little hut, is in the relentless grip of "a monstrous vision, the Fairy Illness, stripped in the silver glimmer of the moon." There is always the mingling of gleaming beauty and of bitter sorrow. There is always before us a "cord-grass festival," the amber fragrant flowers budding upon the piercing spikes of the cord-grass and luring man to the deadly bog where there is no redemption. One might say that the poet verges on morbidity.
And look, the madman was my own flesh and blood!
An ancestral sin from the past, long forgotten,
That came back to me like a vampire,
Took away the fresh crown of joy from my hand!

But such an assumption would be unjust. Palamas may have a clear vision of the tragedy of life. But in the light of this revelation, with his unfettered contemplation, he builds, like Bertram Russell, a "shining citadel in the very centre of the enemy's country, on the very summit of his highest mountain; from its impregnable watch-towers, his camps and arsenals, his columns and forts, are all revealed; within its walls, the free life continues while the legions of Death and Pain and Despair and all the servile captains of tyrant Fate afford the burghers of that dauntless city new spectacles of beauty." In like manner, the world of Greece, in which Palamas lives, "our home," as he calls it, may have its dreadful silences that are "full of moans," moans vague and muffled as if coming from a distant world

This madman grows from within the lives of individuals and the nation. The wings of joy and dreams are clipped. One feels like a night owl in the midst of glorious ruins, the beauty of which only makes the night feel darker. Tradition, like a grand temple, seems to suffocate life with its seriousness. The present, which can be represented by a small hut, is caught in the unyielding grip of "a monstrous vision, the Fairy Illness, stripped in the silver glimmer of the moon." There's always a mixture of shining beauty and deep sorrow. We are constantly faced with a "cord-grass festival," the amber-scented flowers blooming on the sharp spikes of the cord-grass, tempting people into the deadly bog where there’s no escape. One could say that the poet is on the brink of morbidity.

Of bygone ages and of times unborn.

But that assumption would be unfair. Palamas might have a clear understanding of the tragedy of life. However, with this insight and his unrestricted contemplation, he constructs, like Bertrand Russell, a "shining fortress in the very heart of enemy territory, on the peak of his tallest mountain; from its impenetrable watchtowers, his camps and arsenals, his columns and forts are all visible; within its walls, a free life carries on while the legions of Death, Pain, and Despair, along with all the submissive leaders of oppressive Fate, provide the citizens of that fearless city with new displays of beauty." Similarly, the world of Greece, where Palamas resides, "our home," as he refers to it, may have its terrible silences that are "full of moans," moans that are vague and muffled, as if they are coming from a distant realm.

But he does not lose sight of that
About past ages and times that are yet to come.

Harmony fit for the chosen few, ...
A lightning sent from Sinai and a gleam
From great Olympus, like the mingling sounds
Of David's harp and Pindar's lyre, conversing
In the star-spangled darkness of the night.

But he doesn’t lose track of that.

At times the poet even raises his song to rapture. Certainly the past becomes a source of happiness in his "Rhapsody," and life is agleam with joy in his "Idyl." But most reflective of this power of the poet to conquer darkness with light and to turn ruins into gleaming palaces of beauty and of song, is the poem entitled "At the Windmill."
Harmony meant for the chosen few, ...
A lightning strike from Sinai and a radiance
From grand Olympus, like the combined sounds
Of David's harp and Pindar's lyre, connecting
In the starry darkness of the night.

The local color which is by no means a rare characteristic of the poetry of Palamas is particularly rich in this collection. Many of its songs are vivid and clear pictures of Greek life. Yet with the touch of symbolism, he makes such local flashes world-flames. In "The Dead," we have a faithful description of the Greek custom of exposing the open coffin with the body in a room whence all furniture is removed. Friends and relatives are gathered about the dead; even children are not excluded from paying this last honor to the departed. The windows are closed, and in the gloom tapers and candles are burning before the images of the saints and over the flower-covered body, while the smoke of the incense and the fragrance of the wreaths fill the air. Yet somehow in the verses of the song one catches the moving sounds of mourning humanity, the image of death against life.

At times, the poet even lifts his song to a state of ecstasy. Clearly, the past brings joy in his "Rhapsody," and life shines with happiness in his "Idyl." But the poem that best shows the poet's ability to overcome darkness with light and transform ruins into shining palaces of beauty and song is called "At the Windmill."

"The Fragments from the Song to the Sun" contain some of the noblest lines of Palamas' poetry. We cannot have a complete understanding of the symbolism with which this part of Life Immovable is filled. For, after all, from the great hymn to the light-god, we have here only fragments. But these fragments remind one of the gold-stained ruins of the Akropolis against the bright Attic sky. Throughout, we are aware of a striking duality. The key to these sunlit melodies is probably found in the "Giants' Shadows." Among the shadows whose voices ascend from darkness "like moanings of the sea," the poet discovers Telamonian Ajax, the giant who is utterly absorbed in the world within him, the source of his light and life, and Goethe, the Teutonic poet, who turns to the world about himself as a flower to the sun, and whose heart "longs and thirsts for light." Here then, we detect the doubleness of the sun of Palamas, a sun within, the source of his inner life and thought, and a sun without, the source of all external beauty and growth.

The local color, which is definitely a notable feature of Palamas's poetry, is especially vibrant in this collection. Many of its songs vividly depict Greek life. However, through the use of symbolism, he transforms these local scenes into universal themes. In "The Dead," we get an accurate portrayal of the Greek custom of displaying the open coffin with the body in a room stripped of furniture. Friends and family gather around the deceased; even children are included in giving this final tribute. The windows are shut, and in the dim light, candles and tapers burn in front of the saints' images and over the flower-covered body, while the incense smoke and the scent of wreaths fill the air. Yet somehow, within the verses of the song, you can hear the poignant sounds of mourning humanity, the contrast of death with life.

3. Fragments from the Song to the Sun

Thus without detracting from the charm and power of the day-star, he ensouls it with a higher meaning and transforms a fiery globe into a light-clad Olympian divinity, a giver of life and death, a healer and a slayer. In "The Tower of the Sun," we find mighty princes, sons of kings, who had gone thither in their desire to hunt for the light, turned into stones by the "giant merciless." Motionless they stand, a world of voiceless statues while

"The Fragments from the Song to the Sun" contain some of the most beautiful lines of Palamas' poetry. We can't fully grasp the symbolism that fills this section of Life Immovable. After all, we only have fragments from the great hymn to the light-god. But these fragments remind us of the gold-stained ruins of the Akropolis against the bright Attic sky. Throughout, we notice a striking duality. The key to these sunlit melodies is probably found in the "Giants' Shadows." Among the shadows whose voices rise from darkness "like the moanings of the sea," the poet finds Telamonian Ajax, the giant who is completely absorbed in his inner world, the source of his light and life, and Goethe, the German poet, who turns to the world around him like a flower turns to the sun, and whose heart "longs and thirsts for light." Here, we see the dual nature of Palamas' sun: a sun within, the source of his inner life and thoughts, and a sun without, the source of all external beauty and growth.

From their deep and smothered eyes,
Something like living glance
Struggles to peep through its stone-veil!

Thus, without taking away from the charm and power of the sun, he gives it a deeper meaning and changes a fiery globe into a divine being wrapped in light, a source of life and death, a healer and a destroyer. In "The Tower of the Sun," we see powerful princes, sons of kings, who went there looking for the light, turned into stone by the "giant merciless." They stand still, a world of silent statues while

Then the fair redeemer, a princess beautiful, comes from far away—the light, it seems, of inner knowledge and inspiration—and the Sun's tower
From their deep and hidden eyes,
Something like a vibrant gaze
Struggles to break free from its stone mask!

Gleamed forth as if the light
Of a new dawn embraced its walls!

Then the fair redeemer, a beautiful princess, comes from far away—the light, it seems, of inner knowledge and inspiration—and the Sun's tower

She knows where the fountain of life flows and with its waters wakes up the sons of kings, shining
Shone like the light
Of a new dawn enveloping its walls!

... with transcending gleam
Like a far greater Sun.

She knows where the fountain of life flows and with its waters brings the sons of kings to life, shining.

This is, then, the sun whom Palamas worships as a god. It is a sun who possesses all the beauty and power of the actual source of light, but who, at the same time, by the spell of mystic symbolism rises to the splendor of a thrice-fair and almighty divinity containing all that is beautiful and noble and powerful in the world. Upon such a sun he seeks to find a light-flooded palace for his child in the "Mourning Song." To such a sun he offers his hymns and prayers; and such a sun he conceives as a vengeful blood-fed Moloch or a muse of light. He is a fair Phoebus, who rises from pure Olympus' heights to play as a fountain of flowing harmonies or to smite as "an archer of fiery arrows" all living things.
... with a brilliant shine
Like a much larger Sun.

In the "Verses of a Familiar Tune" the poet conceives of himself as of a wedding guest who travels far away to join the festival. The bride, "thrice-beautiful" seems to be Earth; and the bridegroom, the Sun. The journey to the festival is the span of mortal life. The poet, who must travel over this path, endeavors to brighten it with dreams and shorten his way's weary length

This is, then, the sun that Palamas worships as a god. It is a sun that holds all the beauty and power of the true source of light, but at the same time, through the magic of mystical symbolism, it reaches the greatness of a thrice-fair and all-powerful divinity that embodies everything beautiful, noble, and powerful in the world. He seeks to find a light-filled palace for his child in the "Mourning Song," dedicated to such a sun to which he offers his hymns and prayers; and he imagines this sun as a vengeful, blood-hungry Moloch or a muse of light. He is a magnificent Phoebus, who rises from the pure heights of Olympus to act as a fountain of flowing harmonies or to strike as "an archer of fiery arrows" against all living things.

4. Verses of a Familiar Tune

With sounds that like sweet longings wake in him
Old sounds familiar, low whisperings
Of women's beauties and of home-born shadows ...
The flames that burn within the heart, the kisses
That the waves squander on the sandy beach,
And the sweet birds that sing on children's lips!

In "Verses of a Familiar Tune," the poet imagines himself as a wedding guest who travels a great distance to be part of the celebration. The bride, "thrice-beautiful," appears to represent Earth, while the bridegroom symbolizes the Sun. The journey to the festival reflects the journey of life. The poet, who must walk this path, tries to make it more vibrant with dreams and lessen its tiring length.

The second poem of this group, "The Paralytic on the River's Bank," recalls the notes verging on despair which we have found in "The Return." Again the gleaming past, appearing here as the other bank of the river, revels
With sounds that stir sweet desires in him
Old familiar sounds, gentle whispers
About women's beauty and memories of home ...
The flames that burn in his heart, the kisses
That the waves spend on the sandy shore,
And the sweet birds that sing on children's lips!

In lustful growth and endless mirth
With leafy slopes and forests glistening.

The second poem of this group, "The Paralytic on the River's Bank," recalls the notes bordering on despair that we encountered in "The Return." Once again, the shining past, represented here as the opposite bank of the river, revels

At the sight of such splendor, the poet lies palsy-stricken on this bank of the river, the "graceless, barren, and desert bank" unable to rise and sing. Then Life, like a merciful Fairy, takes him into the humble hut of the present and makes him forget the other bank and nourishes him until, at last, waking into the new world, he weaves the whole day long with master hand all kinds of laurel crowns and pours into the unaccustomed air a flute's soft-flown complaint. But again from his bed he raises his eyes and sees once more the world beyond the river, nodding luringly at him; and even there, in the midst of the new life, he falls palsy-stricken, "the paralytic of the river bank."
In passionate growth and endless joy
With green hills and shining forests.

This note of hopelessness is immediately counteracted by the "Simple Song," in which Life opens again her gorgeous gardens of the past to pluck the fairest of flowers; and when he weeps over the newly reaped blossoms that fill his basket, Life rebukes him by facing them unmoved "a life agleam!" With like wholesomeness he greets the early dawn that brings him "thought, light, and sound, his sacred Trinity," and enters the chapel's garden

At the sight of such beauty, the poet lies frozen with awe on this side of the river, the "graceless, barren, and desert bank," unable to rise and sing. Then Life, like a kind fairy, brings him into the simple hut of the present and helps him forget the other side, nurturing him until, finally waking up to a new world, he spends the whole day weaving all kinds of laurel crowns with skill and fills the fresh air with the gentle lament of a flute. But again, from his bed, he lifts his eyes and sees once more the world beyond the river, enticing him; and even there, in the midst of this new life, he falls frozen again, "the paralytic of the river bank."

To see the children beautiful,
Children that make the grassy beds a heaven
And rise like miracles among the flowers.

This sense of hopelessness is quickly disrupted by the "Simple Song," where Life reopens her beautiful gardens of the past to gather the best flowers; and when he cries over the freshly picked blooms filling his basket, Life scolds him by showing him, unfazed, "a life shining bright!" With the same sense of freshness, he welcomes the early dawn that brings him "thought, light, and sound, his sacred Trinity," and steps into the chapel's garden.

But on the whole, man, the wedding guest, must travel on while the winds of uncertainty blow about him. Riddles face him everywhere; questions stern and unanswerable spring before him; and the life of the whole human race seems to be that of Thought likened to "an angel ever wrestling with a strong giant flinging his hundred hands about the angel's neck to strangle him." For who knows if a good act unknown shines more than the most splendid monuments of marble or verse? Who knows if vice is wiser than virtue? Is Fair Art, War's Triumphs, and great Thoughts expressed costlier in the Temple of the Universe than the mute Thought and Glory of the flower,
To see the beautiful kids,
Children who transform the grassy fields into paradise
And stand out like miracles among the flowers.

... at whose birth
The dawn rejoices and whose early death
The saddened evening silently laments?

But overall, the wedding guest has to keep moving while the winds of uncertainty swirl around him. He’s confronted with riddles everywhere; stern and unanswerable questions come at him; and the life of all humanity seems to be like Thought compared to "an angel always wrestling with a strong giant who's trying to strangle him with his hundred hands." Because who really knows if an unknown good deed shines brighter than the most impressive monuments of marble or poetry? Who knows if vice is smarter than virtue? Are beautiful art, the triumphs of war, and great ideas more valuable in the Universe's Temple than the silent thought and glory of a flower?

The thoughtful sage high-rising smites the gates
Of the Infinite and questions every Sphinx;
Yet who knows if the soldier with no will,
Obeying blindly, is not nearer Truth?
... at whose birth
The dawn celebrates and whose early death
The sorrowful evening quietly mourns?

O struggle vast! Who knows what power measures
The measureless and creates the great?
Is it the matchless thought of the endowed,
Or the dim soul of the multitude that bursts,
Thoughtless of reason, into life? Who knows?
The wise thinker reaches for the skies and challenges the Infinite at the gates,
Questions every Sphinx;
Yet who knows if the soldier without desire,
Following orders without question, is not closer to Truth?

We know not "whether the holy man's blessing" is the best, nor whether there is more light of Truth in the Law, "that is all eyes," or in some blind love. Thus entangled in the meshes of life's sphinx-like wonders, we spend our day, little particles of the great world-struggle, wedding guests at Life's strange festival!
O vast struggle! Who knows what power defines
The infinite and shapes the great?
Is it the unmatched ideas of the gifted,
Or the foggy spirit of the crowd that erupts,
Unmindful of reason, into existence? Who knows?

In tenderness and delicacy of thought and expression, no part of Life Immovable can be compared with the smoothly flowing stanzas of "The Palm Tree." There is no ruggedness in the meter, no violence in the stream of images. We are led without knowing it into a modest garden. A few flowers, a palm tree, some bushes, and the sky make our world, a world, it seems, of things small and common and trivial. But the poet passes by, listens to the humble flowers of dark and light blue, and puts their talk into rhythms.

We don't know if "the holy man's blessing" is the best, or if there's more truth in the Law, "that is all eyes," or in some blind love. Caught up in the complexities of life's mysterious wonders, we spend our days as tiny parts of the larger struggle in the world, like wedding guests at Life's strange festival!

5. The Palm Tree

At once, the flowers become a world of beauty, life, and thought. They are our kin, sons of the same parent Earth, and dreamers of strangely similar dreams. The Palm tree over them becomes a great mystery of power and grace lifting it to the realm of gods. The flowers, like little mortals, wonder at the things they see about them. Their own existence beneath the palm tree's shade is full of riddles, and they face the world with questionings. In the very midst of a clear sky's festival that succeeds a rain, the little flowers suffer the first blows of pain, dealt by the last drops that fall from the palm leaves, and they feel the agony of sorrow until they come to realize that even pain brings its reward, knowledge, which makes them glory, like victors, over death. Their being expands and they sing a song which is the essence of the world's humanity:

In terms of tenderness and delicate expression, no part of Life Immovable can compare to the flowing lines of "The Palm Tree." There’s no roughness in the rhythm, no harshness in the imagery. We find ourselves, almost without realizing it, in a simple garden. A few flowers, a palm tree, some bushes, and the sky create our world—a place that feels small, ordinary, and trivial. Yet the poet moves through, pays attention to the humble flowers in dark and light blue, and captures their whispers in rhythm.

Though small we are, a great world hides in us;
And in us clouds of care and dales of grief
You may descry: the sky's tranquility;
The heaving of the sea about the ships
At evenings; tears that roll not down the cheeks;
And something else inexplicable. Oh,
What prison's kin are we? Who would believe it?
One, damned and godlike, dwells in us; and she is Thought!

At once, the flowers become a world of beauty, life, and thought. They are our relatives, children of the same parent Earth, and dreamers of oddly similar dreams. The palm tree above them becomes a great mystery of strength and elegance, lifting it to the realm of the gods. The flowers, like little beings, marvel at the things they see around them. Their existence under the palm tree's shade is filled with puzzles, and they confront the world with questions. In the middle of a clear sky's celebration that follows a rain, the little flowers endure the first strikes of pain, dealt by the last drops that fall from the palm leaves, and they feel the sorrow until they realize that even pain has its reward, knowledge, which makes them triumph, like victors, over death. Their being expands, and they sing a song that captures the essence of the world's humanity:

Thus their song continues carrying them from thought to thought, from dream to dream, from joy to joy, and from sorrow to sorrow. Swept away by the charms of life, they raise to their strange god a hymn of exultation. At the sight of the thrice-fair rose, they sing a song of love and admiration. Their experiences stimulate their minds, and they seek to solve the dark problems that teem about them. With the eagerness of living beings they listen to the tales of new worlds and miracles brought to them by bees and lizards. Illness and night frighten them with fearful images; and, at last, they pass away with a song of hope and regret:
Even though we’re small, there’s a huge world inside us;
And within us are clouds of worry and valleys of sadness.
You might notice: the calmness of the sky;
The waves rolling around the ships
In the evenings; tears that don’t fall from our cheeks;
And something else we can’t quite explain. Oh,
What kind of prison are we connected to? Who would believe it?
One, cursed yet divine, lives within us; and she is Thought!

We shall die,
Nor will there be a monument for us
That might retain the phantom of our passing!
Only about thee will a robe of light
Adorn thee with a new and deathless gleam:
And it shall be our thought, and word, and rime!
And in the eyes of an astonished world,
Thou wilt appear like a gold-green new star;
Yet neither thou nor others will know of us!

Thus their song continues to take them from thought to thought, from dream to dream, from joy to joy, and from sorrow to sorrow. Caught up in life's allure, they offer a hymn of celebration to their mysterious god. At the sight of the beautifully blooming rose, they sing a song of love and admiration. Their experiences ignite their minds as they try to unravel the complex issues surrounding them. Eager to live, they listen intently to the stories of new worlds and wonders shared by bees and lizards. Illness and night fill them with terrifying images; and finally, they fade away with a song of hope and regret:

Harvard University,
We'll all die,
And there won't be a monument for us
That can capture the memory of our passing!
Only around you will a robe of light
Adorn you with a fresh and eternal glow:
And it will be our thoughts, our words, and our verses!
And in the eyes of a stunned world,
You will shine like a new gold-green star;
But neither you nor anyone else will remember us!

June 3, 1917.

Harvard University

And now the columns stand a forest speechless
And motionless; and among them, the rhythms
And thoughts move in slow measures constantly;
And in their depths, light-written images
Show Love that leads and Soul that follows him.

June 3, 1917.

TRANSLATIONS

LIFE IMMOVABLE

INTRODUCTORY POEM

From the "Thoughts of Early Dawn."
And now the columns stand like a quiet forest
Stiff and motionless; and among them, the rhythms
And thoughts flow in slow, steady patterns;
And within their depths, glowing images
Show Love that leads and Soul that follows.

I labored long to create the statue for the Temple
On stone that I had found
And set it up in nakedness; and then to pass;
To pass but not to die.
From the "Thoughts of Early Dawn."

And I created it. But narrow men who bow
To worship shapeless wooden images, ill-clad,
With hostile glances and with shudderings of fear,
Looked down upon us, work and worker, angrily.
I worked hard to create the statue for the Temple
From the stone I found
And set it up in its unrefined state; and then, I left;
Left but didn't cease to exist.

My statue in the rubbish thrown! And I, an exile!
To foreign lands, I led my restless wanderings.
But ere I left, a sacrifice unheard I offered:
I dug a pit; and in the pit I laid my statue.
And I made it. But narrow-minded people who bow
To worship shapeless wooden figures, poorly made,
With hostile looks filled with fear,
Looked down on us, the creation and the creator, with anger.

And then I whispered: "Here lie low unseen and live
With things deep-rooted and among the ancient ruins
Until thine hour comes. Immortal flower thou art!
A Temple waits to clothe thy nakedness divine!"
My statue is thrown away! And I'm an outsider!
I roamed through foreign lands, restless.
But before I departed, I made a silent sacrifice:
I dug a hole; and in that hole, I buried my statue.

And with a mouth thrice-wide, and with the voice of prophets,
The pit spoke: "Temple, none! Nor pedestal! Nor light!
In vain! For nowhere is thy flower fit, O Maker!
Better forever lost in the unlighted depths!
And then I whispered: "Stay low and hidden here
With deep-rooted things among the ancient ruins
Until your time comes. You are an eternal flower!
A Temple awaits to cover your divine nudity!"

"Its hour may never come! and if it come, and if
Thy work be raised, the Temple will be radiant
With a great host of statues, statues of no blemish,
And works of thrice-great makers unapproachable!
And with a mouth three times wider, and with the voice of prophets,
The pit spoke: "No temple! No pedestal! No light!
It's pointless! For your flower will never fit, O Creator!
Better to be lost forever in the dark depths!

"Today, was soon for thee; tomorrow will be late!
Thy dream is vain! The dawn thou longest will not dawn;
Thus burning for eternities thou mayest not reach,
Remain cloud-hunter and Praxiteles of shadows!
"Its time may never come! And if it does, and if
Your work is lifted up, the Temple will shine
With a stunning array of statues, flawless statues,
And creations from incredible artists that are unmatched!"

"Tomorrow and today for thee are snares and seas!
All are but traps for drowning thee and visions false!
Longer than thy glory is the violet's in thy garden!
And thou shalt pass away—hear this!—and thou shalt die!"
"Today is too soon for you; tomorrow will be too late!
Your dream is meaningless! The dawn you hope for won't come;
So, burning forever, you may never arrive,
Stay a dreamer and Praxiteles of shadows!"

And then I answered: "Let me pass away and die!
Creator am I, too, with all my heart and mind!
Let pits devour my work! Of all eternal things,
My restless wandering may have the greatest worth!"
"Tomorrow and today are just traps and storms for you!
They are nothing but snares that can overwhelm you with false dreams!
The violet in your garden lasts longer than your glory!
And you will fade away—listen to this!—and you will die!"

To the blessed shade of Tigrane Yergate who loved my Fatherlands.
And then I responded: "Just let me fade away and die!
I'm a creator too, with all my heart and mind!
Let the void consume my work! Among all eternal things,
My restless journey might be the most precious!"

FATHERLANDS

Where with its many ships the harbor moans,
The land spreads beaten by the billows wild,
Remembering not even as a dream
Her ancient silkworks, carriers of wealth.

To the cherished memory of Tigrane Yergate, who loved my homeland.

FATHERLANDS

I[5]

The vineyards, filled with fruit, now make her rich;
And on her brow, an aged crown she wears,
A castle that the strangers, Franks or Turks,
Thirst for, since Venice founded it with might.
Where the harbor is filled with ships,
The land is battered by the crashing waves,
Not even remembering as a dream
Her ancient silkworks, those sources of wealth.

O'er her a mountain stands, a sleepless watch;
And white like dawn, Parnassus shimmers far
Aloft with midland Zygos at his side.
The vineyards, overflowing with fruit, now make her prosperous;
And on her head, she wears an ancient crown,
A castle that outsiders, whether Franks or Turks,
Desire, since Venice built it with strength.

Here I first opened to the day mine eyes;
And here my memory weaves a dream dream-born,
An image faint, half-vanished, fair—a mother.
Above her stands a mountain, watching day and night;
And white like dawn, Parnassus glows in the distance
High up beside midland Zygos.

Upon the lake, the island-studded, where
The breeze of May, grown strong with sea-brine, stirs
The seashore strewn with seaweed far away,
The Fates cast me a little child thrice orphan.
Here I first opened my eyes to the day;
And here my memory weaves a dream made of dreams,
A faint, half-faded, beautiful image—a mother.

II[6]

'Tis there the northwind battles mightily
Upon the southwind; and the high tide on
The low; and far into the main's abyss
The dazzling coral of the sun is sinking.
On the lake, dotted with islands, where
The May breeze, filled with salty sea air, stirs
The shoreline scattered with seaweed in the distance,
The Fates made me a little child, three times orphaned.

There stands Varassova, the triple-headed;
And from her heights, a lady from her tower,
The moon bends o'er the waters lying still.
There the north wind fights fiercely
Against the south wind; and the high tide clashes
With the low; and far into the ocean's depths
The bright coral of the setting sun.

But innocent peace, the peace that is a child's,
Not even there I knew; but only sorrow
And, what is now a fire, the spirit's spark.
There stands Varassova, the three-headed;
And from her heights, a lady in her tower,
The moon looks down on the calm waters.

Sky everywhere; and sunbeams on all sides;
Something about like honey from Hymettus;
The lilies grow of marble witherless;
Pentele shines, birthgiver of Olympus.
But the innocent peace, the peace of a child,
I didn’t even know there; only sorrow
And, what is now a fire, the spark of the spirit.

III

The digging pick on Beauty stumbles still;
Cybele's womb bears gods instead of mortals;
And Athens bleeds with violet blood abundant
Each time the Afternoon's arrows pour on her.
The sky is all around, and sunshine is everywhere;
It feels sweet like honey from Hymettus;
The lilies are made of eternal marble;
Pentele shines, the mother of Olympus.

The sacred olive keeps its shrines and fields;
And in the midst of crowds that slowly move
Like caterpillars on a flower white,
The digging pick still stumbles upon Beauty;
Cybele's womb produces gods instead of humans;
And Athens bleeds with plentiful violet blood
Every time the Afternoon's arrows strike her.

The people of the relics lives and reigns
Myriad-souled; and in the dust, the spirit
Glitters; I feel it battling in me with Darkness.
The sacred olive protects its shrines and fields;
And among crowds that move slowly
Like caterpillars on a white flower,

Where the Homeric dwellers of Phaeacia
Still live, and with a kiss meet East and West;
Where with the olive tree the cypress blooms,
A dark robe in the azure infinite,
The people of the relics live and govern
Countless souls; and in the dust, the spirit
Shines; I feel it fighting within me against Darkness.

IV[7]

E'en there my soul has longed to dwell in peace
With towering visions of the land of Pyrrhus;
There dream-born beauties pour their flood, Dawn's mother
Lighting the fountain of sweet Harmony.
Where the residents of Phaeacia from Homer’s tales
Still live and greet the East and West with a kiss;
Where olive trees grow beside cypress trees,
A dark contrast against the endless blue,

The rhapsodies of the Immortal Blind
In the new voice of Greece are echoed there;[8]
The shade of Solomos[9] in fields Elysian
Even there, my soul has yearned for peace
With grand visions of the land of Pyrrhus;
There, beauty born from dreams flows freely, as Dawn’s mother
Illuminates the spring of sweet Harmony.

Breathes rose-born fragrance; and master of the lyre,
A new bard sings,[10] like old Demodocus,
The glories of the Fatherland and Crete.
The songs of the Immortal Blind
Are echoed here in the fresh voice of Greece; __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
The spirit of Solomos __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__ in Elysian fields,

Lo, dreams strange-born among my dreams are mingling;
A lake, the ancient Mareotis, where
The Goddess spreads with ever hidden face
Her wedding couch to greet Osiris Lord.
Breathing in the sweet scent of roses; and the master of the lyre,
A new bard sings, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__ like the old Demodocus,
The glories of the homeland and Crete.

V[11]

As if from graves, from laughless depths, before me
Life brightly glitters with her gentle smile;
A Libyan thirst burns in my heart; and Ra,
The fiery archer, battles everywhere.
Look, strange dreams are blending with my reality;
A lake, the ancient Mareotis, where
The Goddess, with her always hidden face,
Prepares her wedding bed to welcome Osiris, the Lord.

Something sow-like before me gnashed its teeth,
The slavish soul and savage of the Arab;
World-nourishing the Nile rolled on its waters;
As if from graves, from silent depths, in front of me
Life shines brightly with her gentle smile;
A Libyan thirst burns in my heart; and Ra,
The fiery archer, fights everywhere.

And lotus-crowned, in the cool shade of palms,
I loved as beasts that dwell in wilderness
A Fellah lass full-breasted and sphinx-faced.
Something pig-like in front of me bared its teeth,
The submissive and wild spirit of the Arab;
The Nile, which nourishes the world, continued to flow its waters;

A sinner hermit on the Holy Mountain,
I burn in Satan's fire and pine in hell;
My soul is ruins and woe; and in a stream
Deep-flowing, I sink, a traveller beguiled.
And with a crown of lotus flowers, in the cool shade of palm trees,
I loved like wild animals in the wilderness
A peasant girl who was full-figured and had a mysterious face.

VI[12]

The blue Aegean spreads a sapphire treasure;
Like Daphnis and his Chloe stand sky and earth;
Quivering, lo, the seed of life blooms forth;
In swarms, the living beings suck the sap
A sinful hermit on the Holy Mountain,
I’m tormented by Satan's fire and suffer in hell;
My soul is shattered and filled with sorrow; and in a stream
Deep and flowing, I drown, a lost wanderer.

Of all. Olympus, Ossa, Pelion,
And every lap of sea, and every tongue
Of land, lake-like Cassandra, Thrace's shores
The blue Aegean stretches out like a sapphire treasure;
Sky and earth stand like Daphnis and Chloe;
Look, the seed of life blooms, trembling;
In swarms, living beings drink in the sap.

Are clad in wedding garb; and I? "O Lord,
Be my Redeemer!" and with floods of tears
I bathe the god-child Panselenus[13] wrought.
Of all. Olympus, Ossa, Pelion,
And every stretch of sea, and every piece
Of land, like a lake Cassandra, Thrace's shores

Rumele is a royal crown of ruby;
Moreas is a glow of emerald;
The Seven Isles,[15] a jasmine sevenfold;
And every Cyclad, a Nereid sea-born.
Are dressed in wedding attire; and I? "O Lord,
Be my Savior!" and with streams of tears
I wash the god-child Panselenus__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ created.

VII[14]

Even the chains of rugged Epirus laugh;
And Thessaly spreads far her golden charms.
Hidden beneath her present waves of woe,
Methinks I look on Hellas, Queen of lands.
Rumele is a royal crown of rubies;
Moreas shines like emeralds;
The Seven Isles, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__, bloom like jasmine;
And every Cyclad is a sea-born Nereid.

For still the ancient fir of valor blooms;
And from the pangs and sighs of ages risen,
The breath of Digenes[16] fills all the land
Even the chains of rugged Epirus smile;
And Thessaly spreads out her golden beauty.
Hidden beneath her waves of sorrow,
I think I see Hellas, Queen of lands.

Breeding a race of heroes strong and new;
And in the depths of green and golden Night
Sings on Colonus Hill the nightingale.
For the ancient fir of courage still thrives;
And from the pains and sorrows of past ages,
The spirit of Digenes __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__ fills the land.

From Danube to the cape of Taenaron,
From Thunder Mountain's End to Chalcedon,
Thou passest now a mermaid of the sea
And now a statue of marble Parian.
Fostering a strong and new generation of heroes;
And in the depths of the green and golden Night,
The nightingale sings on Colonus Hill.

VIII

Now with the laurel bough from Helicon
And now with sword barbarian, thou sweepest;
And on the fields of thy great labarum,
I see a double headed image drawn.
From the Danube to the Cape of Taenaron,
From the end of Thunder Mountain to Chalcedon,
You now encounter a mermaid of the sea,
And then a statue made of Parian marble.

The sacred Rock gleams like a topaz here;
And virgins basket-bearing, clad in white,
March in a dance and shake Athena's veil;
Now with a laurel branch from Helicon,
And now wielding a barbarian sword, you forge ahead;
And on the fields of your great standard,
I see a double-headed figure depicted.

But far the sapphires shine of Bosporus;
And through the Golden Gate exulting pass
Victors Imperial triumphantly.
The sacred Rock shines like a topaz here;
And maidens carrying baskets, dressed in white,
Dance and sway, shaking Athena's veil;

Like the Phaeacians' ship, Imagination
Without the help of sail or mariner
Rolls on; in my soul's depths loom many lands:
Thrice-ancient, motionless like Asia,
But the sapphires of the Bosporus gleam brightly;
And through the Golden Gate, victorious champions pass
With triumph.

IX

And others five-minded and bold like Europe's realms;
Despair like Africa's black earth holds me;
Within me a savage Polynesia spreads;
And always I trail some path Columbian.
Like the ship of the Phaeacians, my imagination
Without the aid of a sail or a captain
Moves forward; in my soul, many lands emerge:
Ancient and still like Asia,

All monstrous things of life, the fields aflame
Under a tropic sun, I knew; I wore
The shrouds of the poles; and on a thousand paths,
And others are bold and vibrant like Europe's territories;
Despair, like Africa's dark soil, brings me down;
Inside me, a wild Polynesia opens up;
And I constantly trace some Columbian path.

I saw the world unfurled before my eyes.
And what am I? Grass on a clod of earth
Scorned even by the passing reaper's scythe.
All the monstrous things in life, the fields burning
Under a tropical sun, I've recognized; I wore
The garments of the poles; and on countless paths,

A traveller, I found in waveless seas
Calypso and Helena thrice-beautiful;
And on the Lotus Eaters' shores, I drank
The blissful waters of oblivion.
I watched the world unfold right before me.
And what am I? Just grass on a patch of dirt
Ignored even by the passing reaper's scythe.

X

In the sun-flooded land, I stood by him,
The god of the Hyperborean race;
One night—in strange and peerless radiance—
The Magi showed to me the mystic star.
As a traveler, I discovered in calm seas
Calypso and Helena, stunningly beautiful;
And on the shores of the Lotus Eaters, I drank
The blissful waters of forgetfulness.

I saw the Queen of Sheba on her throne,
O Soul, light flowing from her fingers' touch;
My eyes beheld Atlantis Isle, that seemed
In the sunlit land, I stood next to him,
The god of the Hyperborean people;
One night—in a strange and unique light—
The Magi revealed to me the mystical star.

An Ocean flower beyond a mortal's dreams;
And now the care and memory of all
These things are rhythm to me and verse and song.
I saw the Queen of Sheba on her throne,
Oh Soul, light flowing from her fingertips;
My eyes beheld Atlantis Isle, which appeared

About the chariot of the Seven Stars,
Sky-racers numberless, whole worlds of giants
And beasts: Ocean of suns, the Milky Way,
Orion, and the monsters of the spheres—
Like an ocean flower beyond anyone's wildest dreams;
And now the care and memory of all
These things feel like rhythm, poetry, and song to me.

XI

The fearful Zodiac. The Lion roars
Amidst the wilderness ethereal;
The Lyre plays; and trophy-like, the Lock
Of Berenice gleams; and rhythms and laws
About the chariot of the Seven Stars,
Countless sky-racers, entire realms of giants
And creatures: Ocean of suns, the Milky Way,
Orion, and the monsters of the cosmos—

Fade in the space of mysteries. Sun, Cronus,
Mars, Earth, and Venus sweep in swift pursuit
Towards the world magnet of great Hercules.
The scary Zodiac. The Lion roars
In the celestial wilderness;
The Lyre plays; and like a trophy, the Lock
Of Berenice shines; and rhythms and rules

Only my soul like polar star awaits
Immovable, yet filled with dreamful longings;
And knows not whence it comes nor where it goes.
Fade in the realm of mysteries. The Sun, Cronus,
Mars, Earth, and Venus race quickly
Towards the strong pull of great Hercules.

Fatherlands! Air and earth and fire and water!
Elements indestructible, beginning
And end of life, first joy and last of mine!
You I shall find again when I pass on
Only my soul, like a polar star, waits
Unmoved, yet filled with dreamy desires;
And knows not where it comes from nor where it goes.

XII

To the graves' calm. The people of the dreams
Within me, airlike, unto air shall pass;
My reason, fire-like, unto lasting fire;
My passions' craze unto the billows' madness;
Homelands! Air, earth, fire, and water!
These unbreakable elements are the beginning
And end of life, my first delight and my last!
I will find you again when I move on.

Even my dust-born body, unto dust;
And I shall be again air, earth, fire, water;
And from the air of dreams, and from the flames
To the peace of the graves. The people of my dreams
Within me, like air, will return to air;
My thoughts, like fire, will keep burning as fire;
My wild passions will dissolve into the waves' chaos;

Of thought, and from the flesh that shall be dust,
And from the passions' sea, ever shall rise
A breath of sound like a soft lyre's complaint.
Even my body, made of dust, will return to dust;
And I will become air, earth, fire, and water once more;
And from the air of dreams, and from the flames

From their foreign land and precious,
From their nest in green, I took
Red-plumed birds; and then I closed them
In a cage of woven gold.
Of thoughts, and from the flesh that will turn to dust,
And from the sea of passions, there will always rise
A breath of sound like the soft lament of a lyre.

THE SONNETS

And the cage of woven gold
Then became a second nest;
On our shores the birds have found
A new, precious fatherland.
From their distant homeland,
From their lush green nest, I took
Red-plumed birds; and then I trapped them
In a cage made of woven gold.

Softly here they shake their feathers;
Swiftly sing of worlds and souls
Deep and spacious; or they mingle
And the golden cage
Then became a second home;
On our shores the birds have found
A new, cherished homeland.

Lightning-like their tears and smiles.
And though small and as of coral,
Yet they sing with accents loud.
Gently, they shake their feathers;
Quickly singing about worlds and souls
Deep and vast; or they mix

1896.
Like lightning, their tears and smiles.
And though they're small and like coral,
They sing with strong voices.

With chariot drawn by star-plumed peacocks, lo,
The goddess of desires before her people
Is revealed! She passes on, youth's joyful shout
And torture, dragging my eighteen years behind.
1896.

EPIPHANY

Snowflakes became a world; and, taking life
As substance, made her body and her thought.
Upon her royal brow, birds strange and wild,
Scorn's breed, have built their nest and there abide.
Look, the goddess of desires is revealed to her people, riding in a chariot pulled by peacocks with starry feathers!
She moves on, carrying the joyful cries of youth
And the weight of my eighteen years dragging behind.

Upon her path, in vain I build the palace
Of virgin dreams with virgin gold for her,
Raising a throne of diamonds in its midst.
Snowflakes created a universe and, giving life,
Formed her body and mind from their essence.
On her majestic forehead, strange and wild birds,
Children of scorn, have built their nests and made it their home.

She passes on her starlit chariot;
And as if filled with golden dreams divine,
She does not even look upon my palace!
Along her path, I desperately create a palace
Of pure dreams made of pure gold for her,
Building a throne of diamonds at the center.

1895.
She rides by in her starlit chariot;
And as if filled with amazing golden dreams,
She doesn’t even look at my palace!

To you, who dawned before me, offspring of
The great abyss and flower of foaming billows!
To you, whom with their love all things embrace,
And who stir tempests in a statue's depths!
1895.

MAKARIA [17]

To you, O woman and O virgin, myrrhs,
Fruit, frankincense, I offer recklessly!
To you, the music of the world! To you,
My songs' pure foam, songs that your vision fills!
To you, who appeared before me, child of
The vast ocean and the crashing waves!
To you, whom everything surrounds with love,
And who stirs storms in the heart of a statue!

For you can love, remember, understand.
Before I saw you in the world's great night,
You shone upon my mother's lighted face.
To you, O woman and O virgin, myrrh,
fruit, frankincense, I offer freely!
To you, the music of the world! To you,
the pure essence of my songs, songs that your presence inspires!

Your worshipper into the world I came;
Your name I knew not, and in love's sweet font
I called you with the name Makaria!
For you can love, remember, understand.
Before I saw you in the world's vast darkness,
You shone on my mother's glowing face.

1895.
Your worshipper entered the world;
I didn't know your name, and in love's sweet spring
I called you by the name Makaria!

Just as dry summers pant for the first rain,
So thou art thirsty for a happy home
And for a life remote, like hermit's prayer,
A corner of forgetting and of love.
1895.

THE MARKET PLACE

And thirsty for the ship upon the sea
That ever onward sails with birds and sea-things,
Filling its life with our great planet's light.
But unto thee both ship and home said: "No!
Just like dry summers crave the first rain,
You long for a happy home
And for a peaceful life, like a hermit's prayer,
A place filled with peace and love.

"Look neither for the happiness remote
That never moves, nor for the life that ever finds
In each new land and harbor a new soul!
And you dream of the ship on the ocean
That always sails ahead with birds and sea creatures,
Filling its journey with the light of our incredible planet.
But to you, both the ship and home said: "No!

"Only the panting of a toiling slave
For thee! Drag in the market place thy body's
Nakedness, strange to the strangers and thine own!"
"Don't chase a happiness that's far away
That never changes, nor a life that constantly discovers
In every new place and harbor a fresh spirit!"

1896.
"Only the heavy breathing of a struggling slave
For you! Expose your body's
Nakedness in the marketplace, unfamiliar to strangers and to yourself!"

Some people love things modest and things small,
And like to feed in cages little birds;
They deck themselves with garden violets
And drink the singing waters of the brooks.
1896.

LOVES

Others delight in tales told by the embers
Of the home hearth or listen to the songs
Of the nightbirds with rapture; others, slaves
Of a great pain, burn incense to the stars
Some people enjoy the simple and small things,
And like to feed little birds in cages;
They decorate themselves with garden violets
And sip from the bubbling waters of streams.

Of beauty. And some thirst for the forest shades
And for a nacreous dawn, and for a sunset
Dipped in red blood, a barren wilderness
Others find happiness in stories shared by the glowing embers
Of the home fire or listen to the songs
Of nightbirds with fascination; others, weighed down
By deep suffering, offer incense to the stars

Light-burned. But thee no love with nature binds;
And where the heavens mingle with the sea,
A path thou seekest for a sphere beyond.
Of beauty. And some yearn for the coolness of the forest
And for a pearly dawn, and for a sunset
Soaked in red, a desolate wilderness

1896.
Light-burned. But you have no connection of love with nature;
And where the sky meets the sea,
You look for a way to a realm beyond.

With wings and hands ethereal, rhythms and thoughts
Lifted thy soul, redeemed from its dust frame,
And led it straightway to the stars; and there
The sacred escort halts and ends its journey.
1896.

WHEN POLYLAS DIED [18]

In summers paradisiac beyond,
Where on the Lyre's star the bards and makers,
Like doves with breath immortal, dwell in gleams,
The shade of Solomos like magnet draws thee,
With ethereal wings and hands, rhythms and thoughts
Lifted your soul, freed from its physical form,
And took it straight to the stars; and there
The holy guide halts and completes its journey.

And leading thee before a double Tabor,
Thus speaks to thee: "Here is thy glory! Here
Dwell and behold the giant pair that stand
In the summer paradise beyond,
Where on the Lyre's star the poets and creators,
Like doves with eternal breath, live in shining light,
The shadow of Solomos attracts you like a magnet,

Before thee never setting, with diamonds dark;
And like a breath of worship pass, embracing
Thy Homer and thy Shakespeare, blessed One!"
And leading you before a double Tabor,
Speaks to you: "Here is your glory! Here
Live and witness the giant pair that stand

1896.
Before you, never fading, with dark diamonds;
And like a breath of admiration, I pass, embracing
Your Homer and your Shakespeare, blessed One!"

O bard, whose songs unto the vernal god
Of idyls rang from the same gladsome flute,
April's sweet-breathing air is mingled now
With martial sounds of savage trumpetings.
1896.

TO PETROS BASILIKOS [19]

A crown is woven for our motherland:
Is it life's laurels or the martyr's thorns?
Oh see beyond: the wild vine's flowers now
Are shaken on a lake of blood and tears!
O bard, whose songs to the spring god
Brought stories from the same cheerful flute,
April's sweet, fragrant air is now mixed
With the harsh sounds of wild trumpets.

Has the war phantom blown upon thee too?
Or hast thou with the force of lightning winds
Flown where for ages sacred hatreds burn
A crown is created for our homeland:
Is it the rewards of life or the suffering of martyrs?
Oh look deeper: the wild vine's flowers now
Are scattered on a lake of blood and tears!

In flames? Or has an evil wound thrown thee
Upon the earth where now in vain the god
Of idyls tries to raise thee with his kisses?
Has the spirit of war affected you too?
Or have you, with the power of lightning winds,
Flown to where sacred hatreds have burned for ages?

1897.
In flames? Or has a wicked wound brought you
Down to the ground where now, in vain, the god
Of idyls tries to lift you with his kisses?

Soldier and maker swiftly I
Seized with my hand the spear and spoke:
"Fall on the beast of the world beyond
And strike the eagle-wingèd lion!"
1897.

SOLDIER AND MAKER

Before me with God's grace, I saw
Soulless the griffin seven-souled,
Blood spurting from a hole hell-like
And scorching with its heat the grass!
As a soldier and creator, I quickly
Grabbed the spear and said:
"Attack the creature from another world
And strike the lion with eagle wings!"

And then restored with calm, I saw
The savage strife like a day's dawn;
And the destroyer, I, became
Before me, with God's grace, I saw
The soulless griffin, seven souls deep,
Blood gushing from a hellish wound
And scorching the grass with its heat!

A maker; and with this same hand,
I carve on ivory the man
Who slew the beast and make him deathless.
Then, feeling calm again, I saw
The fierce struggle like the dawn of a new day;
And I, the one who destroyed, became

1896.
A creator; and with this same hand,
I carve on ivory the man
Who killed the beast and make him immortal.

Why leanest thou on idle spear?
Why is thy dreadful helmet bent
Heavy upon thy breast, O virgin?
What sorrow is so great, O thought,
1896.

THE ATHENA RELIEF

As to touch thee? Are there no more
Of thunder-bearing enemies
To yield thee trophies new? No pomp
Athenian to guide thy ship
Why do you rely on that useless spear?
Why is your frightening helmet weighed
Down heavily on your chest, O virgin?
What sorrow is so deep, O thought,

On to the sacred Rock? I see
Some pain holds Pallas fixed upon
A gravestone. Some great blow moves her:
As to be close to you? Are there no more
Thunderous enemies
To bring you new trophies? No great
Athenian to guide your ship

Is it thy sacred city's loss,
Or seest thou all Greece—alas—
Of now and yesterday entombed?
To the sacred Rock? I see
Some pain keeps Pallas stuck on
A gravestone. Some powerful force moves her:

1896.
Is it the loss of your sacred city,
Or do you see all of Greece—oh no—
Buried in both the past and the present?

Whither so light of garb and swift of foot, O Huntress?
Is it the sacred gifts of pure Hippolytus
That make thee leave Arcadia's forest land behind,
O shelter of the pure, and slayer of the wild?
1896.

THE HUNTRESS RELIEF

Wild lily of virginity raised on the fields
Olympian, O mountain Queen of gleaming bow,
I envy him who in a careless hour did face
Thy beauty's lightning with thy heartless vengefulness.
Where are you headed, graceful in your attire and swift on your feet, O Huntress?
Is it the sacred offerings of the pure Hippolytus
That lead you to leave behind the woods of Arcadia,
O guardian of the innocent and hunter of the wild?

And yet white like the morn, thou openest in secret
Thy lips thrice fragrant with divine ambrosia
And sayest: "Latona's deathless grace has moulded me
Wild lily of purity blooming in the fields,
Divine one, O mountain Queen with the shining bow,
I envy the one who, in a moment of carelessness, confronted
Your beauty's lightning with your heartless wrath.

Under the sacred tree upon Ortygia;
But now once more upon the noble stone, the new
Maker has moulded me with a new deathlessness."
And yet, pure as the morning, you secretly open
Your lips three times fragrant with divine ambrosia
And say: "Latona's eternal grace has formed me
Under the sacred tree on Ortygia;
But now once again, on the noble stone, the new
Creator has shaped me with a fresh immortality."

1895.
1895.

A FATHER'S SONG

O first-born pride and joy of my own home,
I still remember thy coming's sacred day:
The early dawn was breaking as from pearls,
Whitening the sky that spread star-spangled still;
Oh first-born pride and joy of my home,
I still remember the special day you came:
The early dawn was breaking like pearls,
Lighting up the sky that was still filled with stars;

Thou wert not like the fresh and budding rose
In its green mother's clasp before it opens;
Thou camest like a victim pitiful
And feeble cast by a rude hand among us.
You weren’t like a fresh and budding rose
In its green mother's embrace before it blooms;
You came like a pitiful
And fragile victim tossed carelessly among us.

And as if thou wert seeking help, thy wail
Rose sadder than the sound of a death knell;
And thus the last of thy own mother's groans
And as if you were asking for help, your cry
Was sadder than the sound of a funeral bell;
And so the last of your mother's moans

Was mingled with thy first lament. Life's great
Drama began. I watch it, and I feel
Within me Fear's and Pity's mystic wail!
Was mixed with your first cry. Life's great
Drama began. I watch it, and I feel
Inside me the mysterious wail of Fear and Pity!

1894.
1894.

TO THE POET L. MAVILES [20]

Thy soul is seeking tranquil paths
Alone; thou hatest barking mouths;
And yet thy country's love enflames thee,
O maker of the noble sonnet.
Your soul is searching for tranquil paths
All alone; you can't stand loud voices;
And yet your love for your country drives you,
Oh, creator of the great sonnet.

In the white alabaster vase
Filled with pure native earth, a flower
Of dream that only few can see
Trembles and scatters fragrances.
In the white alabaster vase
Filled with fine native soil, a flower
Of dreams that only a few can see
Shivers and releases its fragrance.

Thy verse, the vase; thy mind, the flower.
But a hand broke the vase, and now
The azure beauty of the flower
Your verse is the vase; your mind is the flower.
But a hand shattered the vase, and now
The blue beauty of the flower

Has found a mate in the powder's smoke
Upon Crete's Isle, the blue sea's crown,
Mother of bards and tyrant slayers.
Has found a companion in the powder's smoke
On Crete's Island, the blue sea's crown,
Mother of poets and tyrant slayers.

1896.
1896.

IMAGINATION

Time's spider lurks and lies in wait;
And on its poisoned claws, the beast
All watchful glides, assails, and grasps
The ruin. O thrice-holy beauties!
Time's spider hides and waits;
And on its poisoned claws, the beast
All watchful moves, attacks, and grasps
The ruin. Oh, thrice-holy beauties!

In vain all props and wisdom's arts!
In vain a tribe of sages seek
To save it! Time's remaining crumbs
Are scattered far and melt like frost.
All support and clever tricks are useless!
A group of wise people tries
To save it! The last bits of time
Are spread out and vanish like frost.

Then from the lofty land of Thought,
Imagination came, a goddess
Among the gods, and made again,
Then from the high realm of Thought,
Imagination appeared, a goddess
Among the gods, and recreated,

Even where until now the ruin
Crumbled, what only its hands can make—
Deathless the first-born Parthenon.
Even where the ruin has crumbled until now,
What only its hands can create—
Timeless, the first-born Parthenon.

1896.
1896.

MAKARIA'S DEATH

To die for these, my brothers, and myself;
For by not loving my own life too much,
I found the best of finds, a glorious death.
I'm willing to die for these, my brothers, and for myself;
Because I didn’t cherish my own life too much,
I found the greatest treasure, a glorious death.

Euripides, Herakleidae, 532-534.
Euripides, Herakleidae, 532-534.

On Athens' earth, Zeus of the Market place
Sees Hercules's children kneeling down
On his pure altar, strange, forlorn, thrice-orphan.
Fearful the Argive sweeps on; duty's hand
On the streets of Athens, the Marketplace Zeus
Watches Hercules's children kneeling down
At his clean altar, feeling out of place, alone, and lost.
The Argive moves forward, overwhelmed by the weight of duty

Is weak. The king of Athens pities them,
But cruel oracles vex him with fear:
"Lo, from thy blood, thrice-noble virgin, shall
The conquerless new enemy be conquered."
And is weak. The king of Athens feels pity for them,
But harsh prophecies trouble him with fear:
"Look, from your blood, thrice-noble virgin, shall
The unstoppable new enemy be defeated."

None stirs, alas! Orphanhood is forsaken
By all. Then, filled with pride of heroes, thou,
Redeemer of a land and race, divine
No one stirs, alas! Orphanhood is abandoned
By all. Then, filled with the pride of heroes, you,
Redeemer of a land and people, divine

Daughter thrice-worthy of the great Alcides,
Plungest into thy breast the victim's sword
And diest a thrice-free death, Makaria.
Daughter who truly deserves the great Hercules,
You plunge the victim's sword into your heart
And die a truly free death, Makaria.

1896.
1896.

TO PALLIS [21] FOR HIS "ILIAD"

From cups that are both ours and strange,
Enameled, and adorned with leaves
Of laurel and of ivy green,
We quaff the wine both pure and mixed.
From cups that are both ours and others’,
Enamel-coated and adorned with green leaves
Of laurel and ivy,
We sip the wine, both pure and mixed.

The liquid that within us burns,
Or poured in cups about us gleams
And bird-like sings, brings us away
To the far Isle of dreams. But thou
The liquid that ignites a fire within us,
Or sparkles in cups around us
And sings like a bird, takes us away
To the faraway Isle of dreams. But you

Enviest not the path of dreams,
Nor sharest in our drunken revel;
For with our fathers' spacious cup,
Do not envy the road of dreams,
Nor join in our wild celebrations;
For with our fathers' generous cup,

The strong and simple, thou hast brought
Immortal water from the spring
Of Homer, thou O traveller!
The strong and simple, you have brought
Timeless water from the spring
Of Homer, you O traveler!

1903.
1903.

HAIL TO THE RIME

Cyprus's shores have not beheld thee born of foam;
A foreign Vulcan forged thee on a diamond anvil
With a gold hammer; and the bard who touches thee,
Bound with thy magic beauty's charms, remains thy thrall.
Cyprus's shores haven’t welcomed you born from the sea foam;
A foreign Vulcan created you on a diamond anvil
With a golden hammer; and the poet who reaches you,
Captivated by the charms of your magical beauty, remains your prisoner.

The yearning prayers of a lover fondly loved
Cannot accomplish what thou canst, strange nightingale!
Thy song wafts me upon the tranquil fields of calm
When jackals born of woeful cares within me howl.
The heartfelt prayers of a deeply loved partner
Can’t achieve what you can, strange nightingale!
Your song takes me to the peaceful fields of calm
When the jackals of my troubling worries howl within me.

Thy might gives even sin a garment beautiful;
And thought divine before thee bows in reverence.
Imagination's ship sails with thy help straight on
Your power makes even sin look beautiful;
And divine thoughts bow before you in respect.
Imagination's ship sails forward with your help.

Where Solomon and Croesus have their treasuries.
To thee I pray! Answer my greeting lovingly,
Thou new tenth Muse among the nine of old, O Rime!
Where Solomon and Croesus keep their treasures.
To you I pray! Respond to my greeting kindly,
You new tenth Muse among the nine of old, O Rhyme!

1896.
1896.

THE RETURN
1897

(1897 is the year of the Greco-Turkish war which ended disastrously for Greece. See Introduction, page 58.)

(1897 is the year of the Greco-Turkish war, which ended badly for Greece. See Introduction, page 58.)

DEDICATION

Mother thrice reverend, O widowed saint,
Upon thy shattered throne I come to place
The crowns of Art, dream-made and dream-engraved.
With war storms desolate, my native land,
Trod by the Turk and by strangers scorned thou wert;
Even thy child beholding thee in ruins,
As if the waters of Oblivion
In dark Oblivion's Dale had touched his lips,
Left thee; and thou didst writhe like a whole world
Engulfed in sounds of woe: Hair-tearings and
Breast-beatings, groans of sad despair, night-bats
Wandering restlessly, unheeded prayers
Of souls condemned, loud thunder peals, fierce glares
Of lightnings, and the laughter of the fiends!
Mother, revered three times, oh widowed saint,
I stand before your shattered throne to place
The crowns of Art, made from dreams.
My homeland, torn apart by the chaos of war,
Trampled by invaders and scorned by outsiders;
Even your child, witnessing your destruction,
As if the waters of Forgetting
Had grazed his lips in the dark Vale of Forgetting,
Left you; and you struggled like a world
Drowning in cries of sorrow: tearing at your hair and
Beating your chest, groaning in deep despair, as night creatures
Restlessly wandered, ignored prayers
Of lost souls, loud claps of thunder, fierce flashes
Of lightning, and the laughter of demons!

But lo, unknown and humble I, with calm
Upon my countenance and storm in mind,
Far from the panic-stricken market place,
Beneath the plane trees' shade, and far away
By the blood-tinctured settings of the suns,
Unruffled, in another land I travelled,
And deep I dug in distant treasure mines.
And with my hand, that knows no rifle's touch,
Slowly I hammered on the crowns of art;
And if thou findest nowhere on their gleam
Thine image painted, or thy blessed name
Written, thou knowest still, O motherland,
Though in thy woe's abyss they seem unlike,
And though a strange and careless glimmer shines
On them, they were created out of thee;
For thee I made them; and for thee I raised them.
But look, here I am, unknown and humble, with calm
On my face and a storm in my mind,
Far from the frantic marketplace,
Under the shade of the trees, far away
By the blood-colored sunsets,
Unfazed, I traveled to another land,
And I dug deep in distant treasure mines.
With my hand, untouched by a rifle,
I slowly crafted the crowns of art;
And if you can’t find anywhere in their shine
Your image painted, or your blessed name
Written, you still know, O homeland,
Though in your depths of sorrow they seem different,
And though a strange and careless glimmer shines
On them, they were created from you;
For you I made them; and for you I raised them.

Perhaps, when in the midst of wilderness
And ruins thou first openest thine eyes,
O hapless One, my humble offerings
Will not appear like thy wrath's threats, nor like
The joyful trumpetings of thy reveille,
Nor like an image of thy passion's cross,
Nor like thy sorrow's dirge, nor like glad hymns;
But like soft songs and trembling lights and fondlings
Of lily hands, black birds, and stars unknown.
Perhaps, when you first open your eyes in the wilderness
and ruins, oh unfortunate one, my humble offerings
won't seem like the threats of your anger, or like
the joyful sounds of your awakening,
or like a representation of your suffering's cross,
or like the lament of your sorrows, or like happy songs;
but like gentle melodies and flickering lights and caresses
of delicate hands, blackbirds, and unfamiliar stars.

Thus when, smitten with Charon's knife and sunk
In death's dark swoon, a hapless mother feels
Life's tide return, she hears again, like first
Life-summons, the anxious voice of her fond child,
A voice that comforts her and tenderly
Tells of a thousand tales of love his fancy
Weaves or his memory recalls, and drowns
His faintest sigh not to remind his mother
Of the unerring blow of Charon's knife.
Thus when, hit by Charon's blade and lost
In death's deep sleep, an unfortunate mother feels
Life's current return, she hears again, like the first
Call of life, the worried voice of her beloved child,
A voice that comforts her and gently
Shares a thousand stories of love his imagination
Creates or his memory brings back, and silences
His faintest sigh so as not to remind his mother
Of the relentless strike of Charon's blade.

Mother thrice-reverend, O widowed saint,
Upon thy shattered throne I come to place
The crowns of Art dream-made and dream-engraved.
Though they will echo not thy sorrow's groans,
A child of thine has bound them on thine earth
With gold; upon their circles thine own speech
Is shown with master tongue; their light is drawn
From thy sun's gleaming fountain; seek no more!
Mother thrice-revered, O widowed saint,
I come to place on your broken throne
The crowns of Art, made from dreams and engraved with them.
Though they won't resonate with your sorrow's cries,
A child of yours has secured them on your ground
With gold; on their bands, your own words
Are displayed with a skilled tongue; their light comes
From the shining fountain of your sun; seek no more!

Only with harmony sublime and pure,
Which, though it rises over time and space,
Turns the world's ears to his native land,
The poet is the greatest patriot.
Only with harmony that's sublime and pure,
Which, though it rises above time and space,
Draws the world's ears to his homeland,
The poet is the greatest patriot.

THE TEMPLE

My knees, bent on thy marble pavement, bleed,
O Temple built apart in wilderness
For an unseen divinity, a goddess
Who from her being's deep abyss reveals
Only a statue wrought by human hand
And even covered with a veil opaque.
My knees, bent on your marble floor, bleed,
Oh Temple built in the wilderness
For an unseen god or goddess
Who reveals only a statue made by human hands
And even that is hidden behind an opaque veil.

Methinks I see among thy sculptured columns,
Among thy secret treasures and thine altars,
Ion, the Delphic priest, who lays aside
The snow-white raiment of the sacrifice
And takes up the wayfarer's knotty staff.
I am no ministrant, nor have I held
The dreadful mystic key, nor have I touched
Boldly or timidly the sacred gate
That leads to Life's deep-hidden mysteries.
One sinner more, O Temple, in the midst
Of sinful multitudes, I come to worship.
I think I see among your sculpted columns,
Among your secret treasures and altars,
Ion, the Delphic priest, who sets aside
The snow-white clothing of the sacrifice
And picks up the traveler’s rough staff.
I am not a minister, nor have I held
The powerful mystic key, nor have I approached
Confidently or shyly the sacred gate
That leads to Life's hidden mysteries.
One more sinner, oh Temple, in the midst
Of sinful crowds, I come to worship.

My knees, bent on thy marble pavement, bleed;
I feel the chill of night or of the tomb
Creeping upon me slowly, stealthily.
But lo, I struggle to shake off the evil
That creeps on me so cold; with longing heart,
I drag my bleeding knees beyond thy walls,
Out of thy columns—forests stifling me—
Into the sunlight and the moon's soft glimmer.
My knees, bent on your marble pavement, bleed;
I feel the chill of night or of the grave
Creeping up on me slowly, quietly.
But look, I struggle to shake off the darkness
That creeps on me so cold; with a longing heart,
I pull my bleeding knees beyond your walls,
Out of your columns—forests suffocating me—
Into the sunlight and the soft glow of the moon.

Away with prayer's burning frankincense!
Away with the gold knife of the sacrifice!
Away with choirs loud-voiced and clad in white,
Singing their hymns about the flaming altars!
Abandoning thee, O Temple, I return
To the small hut of the first bloom of time.
Enough with the burning incense of prayer!
Enough with the golden knife of the sacrifice!
Enough with the loud choirs dressed in white,
Singing their hymns about the blazing altars!
Leaving you, O Temple, I return
To the small hut of the very beginning.

THE HUT

O humble hut of the first bloom of time,
Neither the noisy city's mingled Babel,
Nor the most tranquil soul of the great plain,
Nor the gold cloud of dust on the wide road,
Nor the brook's course that sings like nightingales,
Nothing of these is either shown to thee
Or speaks before thy bare and flowerless window,
O humble hut of the first bloom of time.
O humble hut from the beginning of time,
Not the noisy chaos of the city,
Nor the peaceful spirit of the wide plains,
Nor the golden dust clouds along the road,
Nor the stream that sings like nightingales,
None of this is in your sight
Or speaks before your bare and flowerless window,
O humble hut from the beginning of time.

Only the neighbor's step now echoes on
From the rough pavement built in Turkish times;
The black wall's shadow, on the narrow street;
And on the lonely ruins lightning-struck
Ere they became the glory of a house,
The nettles revel lustful and unreaped.
Beneath the bare and flowerless window's sill,
A nest of greenish black, like a small heart,
Hangs tenantless and waits and waits and waits
In vain for the return of the first swallow
That has gone forth, its first and last of dwellers.
Only the neighbor's footsteps can be heard now
On the rough pavement from the days of the Turks;
The shadow of the dark wall covers the narrow street;
And on the lonely ruins struck by lightning
Before they became the pride of a home,
The nettles grow wildly and untended.
Under the bare and flowerless windowsill,
A nest, a dark greenish-black, like a small heart,
Hangs empty and waits and waits and waits
In vain for the return of the first swallow
That has left, the first and last of its kind.

O thirsty eyes that linger magnet-bound
On the nest's orphanhood of greenish black!
O ears filled with the terror of the tune
That travels to the bare and flowerless window
High from thy roof moss-covered with neglect,
O humble hut of the first bloom of time!
It is the tune the lone-owl always plays
Blowing upon the cursèd flute of night
Its lingering shrill notes of mournful measure,
Herald of woe and prophet of all ill.
O thirsty eyes that remain fixed
On the nest's loneliness of greenish black!
O ears filled with the dread of the song
That reaches the bare and flowerless window
High from your neglected moss-covered roof,
O humble hut from the beginning of time!
It's the song that the lone owl always plays
Blowing on the cursed flute of night
Its lingering sharp notes of sorrowful tune,
Harbinger of grief and sign of all trouble.

THE RING

The ring is lost! The wedding ring is gone!
The ring is gone! The wedding ring is missing!

A folk song.
A folk song.

My mother planned a wedding feast for me
And chose me for a wife a Nereid,
A tender flower of beauty and of faith.
My mother wished to wed me with thy charms,
O Fairy Life, thou first of Nereids!
My mom threw a wedding feast for me
And chose a Nereid to be my wife,
A beautiful and loyal flower.
She wanted me to marry you and all your charms,
O Fairy Life, you’re the finest of the Nereids!

And hastily she goes to seek advice,
Begging for gold from every sorceress
And powerful witch, and gold from forty brides
Whose wedding crowns are fresh upon their brows;
And making with the gold a ring enchanted,
She puts it on my finger and she binds
With golden bond my youthful human flesh
To the strange Fairy—how strange a wedding ring!—
So she quickly went to ask for help,
Begging for gold from every sorceress
And powerful witch, and gold from forty brides
Whose wedding crowns are still fresh on their heads;
With the gold, she crafted an enchanted ring,
Slipping it onto my finger and binding
My youthful human body with a golden tie
To the strange Fairy—what an unusual wedding ring!—

I was the boy that always older grew
With the transporting passion of a pair
Bethrothed who, lured by longing, countenance
Their wedding moment as an endless feast
Upon a bridal bed of lily white.
I was the boy who kept aging
With the overwhelming passion of a couple
Engaged, who, driven by desire, dream about
Their wedding day as an endless celebration
On a bridal bed of pure white.

The boy I was that always older grew
Gold-bound with Life, the Fairy conqueress;
The boy I was that always older grew
With love and thirst unquenchable for Life;
The boy I was that always older grew
Destined to tread upon a path untrod
Amidst the light, illumined. I was he
Whose brow like an Olympian victor's shone
And like the man's who tamed Bucephalus.
I was the nimble dolphin with gold wings,
Arion's watchful and quick deliverer.
The boy I was, always feeling older,
Golden with Life, the conquering Fairy;
The boy I was, always feeling older,
With endless love and a thirst for Life;
The boy I was, always feeling older,
Destined to walk an untouched path
In the light, illuminated. I was he
Whose brow shone like an Olympian champion's
And like the man who tamed Bucephalus.
I was the swift dolphin with golden wings,
Arion's quick and watchful rescuer.

But then, one day,—I know not whence and how—
Upon a shore of sunburned sands, the hour
Of early evening saddened with dark clouds,
I wrestled with a strange black boy new-come,
Risen to life from the great sea's abyss;
And in the savage spite of that long struggle,
The ring fell from my finger and was gone!
But then, one day—I don’t know where or how—
On a shore of sunbaked sands, the early evening
Turned gloomy with dark clouds,
I struggled with a strange Black boy who had just arrived,
Emerging from the depths of the sea;
And in the fierce anger of that long fight,
The ring slipped off my finger and vanished!

Did the great earth engulf it? Did the wave
Swallow it? I know not. But this I know:
For ever since, the binding spell is rent!
And Fairy Life, the first of Nereids,
My own bethrothed, that was my slave and queen,
Vanished away like a fleet cloud of smoke!
Did the great earth swallow it? Did the wave
Consume it? I don't know. But I do know this:
Since then, the binding spell is broken!
And Fairy Life, the first of the Nereids,
My betrothed, who was both my queen and my captive,
Disappeared like a fleeting wisp of smoke!

And ever since, from my first-blooming youth
To the first flakes of silver that now fall
On the black forest of my hair, since then,
Some power dumb and dreadful holds me bound
With a mere shadow fleeting and unknown
That seems not to exist, yet ever longs
And vainly strives to enter into being.
And ever since, from my blossoming youth
To the first gray hairs that now appear
In the dark forest of my hair, since then,
Some silent and scary force has me chained down
With a mere shadow, fleeting and unknown
That seems nonexistent, yet always longs
And futilely tries to come into being.

And now I am Life's widowed mate and hapless,
Life's great and careless patient! Woe is me!
And I am like the fair Alcithoe,
Daughter of the ancient king, who changed her form
And as a sign of the gods' vengeful wrath
Is now instead of princess a night-bat!
And now I am Life's lonely mate and unfortunate,
Life's great and indifferent sufferer! Woe is me!
And I am like the beautiful Alcithoe,
Daughter of the ancient king, who was transformed
And as a sign of the gods' angry retribution
Is now, instead of a princess, a night bat!

THE CORD GRASS FESTIVAL

See far away, what a glad festival
The golden grasses on the meadow weave!
A festival thrice-fragrant with blond flowers!
With the sweet sunrise sweetly wakening,
I also wish to join the festival
And, like a treasure reaper, to embrace
Masses of flowers blond and fresh with dew,
And then to squander all my flower treasure
At my love's feet, for my heart's ruling queen.
Look out at the joyful festival in the distance,
The golden grass in the meadow is creating!
A celebration filled with the sweet scent of yellow flowers!
With the gentle sunrise bringing in the day,
I too want to join the festival
And, like a treasure collector, hold
Bunches of fresh, dewy flowers in my arms,
And then shower all my floral bounty
At my love's feet, for my heart's true queen.

But the gold-spangled meadow spreads too deep;
And, just as mourning for some dead deprives
A life rejoicing with its twenty years
Of its light raiments of a lily-white,
So is my swift and merry way cut short
By a bad way that lies between, without
An end, beset with brambles and with marshes!
But the gold-specked meadow stretches too far;
And just like grieving someone lost steals
A joyful life at twenty of its bright,
Lily-white clothes,
My quick and happy path is interrupted
By a rough road in between, with no
End in sight, tangled with thorns and swamps!

The thorny plants tear like an enemy's claws;
And like bird-lime the bad plain's mire ensnares
My feet among the brambles and the marshes,
Where, in the parching sun's enflaming shafts,
The brine, like silver lightning, strikes my eyes!
The thorny plants tear like an enemy's claws;
And like sticky traps, the bad ground's mud grabs
My feet in the thorns and the swamps,
Where, in the scorching sun’s burning rays,
The saltwater, like silver lightning, stings my eyes!

Where is the coolness of a breath? Where is
The covering shadow of a leafy tree?
I faint! My frame is bent! My way is lost!
I droop exhausted on the briny earth,
And in my lethargy I feel the thorns
Upon my brow; the bitter brine upon
My lips; the sultriness of the south wind
Upon my hands; the kisses of the marsh
Upon my feet; the rushes' fondling on
My breast; and the hard fate and impotence
Of this bare world within me.
Where art thou,
My love?
See far, in depths of purple sunsets
Gorgeously painted, the glad festival
That golden grasses on the meadow weave,
The festival thrice-fragrant with blond flowers,
Sees me, and calls me still, and waits for me!
Where is the coolness of a breeze? Where is
The shade of a leafy tree?
I’m fainting! My body is hunched over! I’m lost!
I’m exhausted, collapsing on the salty ground,
And in my tiredness, I feel the thorns
On my forehead; the bitter salt on
My lips; the heat of the southern wind
On my hands; the marsh's kisses
On my feet; the rushes soft against
My chest; and the harsh fate and helplessness
Of this bare world inside me.
Where are you,
My love?
Look far, into the depths of purple sunsets
Beautifully painted, the joyful celebration
That golden grasses weave on the meadow,
The celebration sweetly fragrant with yellow flowers,
Sees me, calls me still, and waits for me!

THE FAIRY

When in the evening on my hut the moon
Spreads her soft silver nets that dreams have wrought,
The hut is caught, and, by the net bewitched,
It changes and becomes a lofty tower.
In the evening, when the moon over my hut
Spreads her soft silver nets crafted from dreams,
The hut gets caught, and under the net's enchantment,
It transforms into a tall tower.

And then, unseen by the Day's Sun, the father
Of Health, the rosy-cheeked, who always sees
All things with careless and short-sighted eyes,
A monstrous vision lo, the Fairy Illness,
Stripped in the silver glimmer of the moon,
Herself of moonlight born, looms into sight
Slowly in the enchanted tower's midst!
Then, hidden from the sunlight of day, the father
Of Health, the rosy-cheeked one, who always looks
At everything with careless and shortsighted eyes,
A terrifying sight, behold, the Fairy Illness,
Wrapped in the silver glow of the moon,
Born of moonlight, slowly appears
In the middle of the enchanted tower!

In whitening shimmers, she, like sea at night,
Advances with the step of sleeping men;
Death's pallor is her own, though not Death's chill;
Her ivory skeleton is mantled by
A fleshy cover made of fiery air;
The uncouth flowers on her dragging veil
Seem, like the poppies, crimson red and black;
And still more uncouth look the countless things
Wrought on its folds: dragons and ogresses,
Fevers and lethargies and pains of heart,
Nightmares and storms and earthquakes, breaking nerves.
In bright white light, she moves like the sea at night,
Taking steps like sleepwalkers;
Her pale appearance is her own, yet she isn’t cold like Death;
Her ivory body is covered by
A fleshy layer made of warm air;
The strange flowers on her trailing veil
Look like poppies, a deep crimson red and black;
And the countless things
Drawn on its folds are even stranger: dragons and ogres,
Fever, sluggishness, and heartache,
Nightmares, storms, and earthquakes that rattle nerves.

Delirium flies from her burning lips,
A language made of odd, discordant rhythms.
To nothing, either hers or strange, her eyes
Are like; deep, as abyss untrod, they yawn,
And seem as if they gaze immovable
On empty space. Yet shouldst thou stoop with thirst
To mirror on her staring eyes thine own,
Then wouldst thou see worlds buried in their caves,
Like ruined cities of whole centuries,
Sunk in the fairy-spangled oceans' depths!
Delirium escapes from her burning lips,
A language made of strange, clashing rhythms.
To nothing, whether familiar or not, her eyes
Are deep like a pathless abyss, wide open,
And seem to stare unblinking
At empty space. Yet if you crouch down with thirst
To reflect your own image in her vacant eyes,
You would see worlds hidden in their depths,
Like ruined cities from long ago,
Sunken in the depths of oceans sprinkled with fairy lights!

OUT IN THE OPEN LIGHT

Out in the open light, the Sun is shining,
Father of Health, Health rosy cheeked, whose breasts
Are full, and yield their milk abundantly;
She only sees those things of flesh about
Which her divine sun-father shows to her;
And her unconquerable iron hands
Are matched with careless and short-sighted eyes.
Out in the bright light, the Sun is shining,
Father of Health, rosy-cheeked Health, whose breasts
Are full and provide milk abundantly;
She only sees the physical things around
That her divine sun-father shows her;
And her unyielding iron hands
Are paired with careless and shortsighted eyes.

Out in the open light, even the moon,
The Sibyl, clothed in white, appears, with glance
Lyncean, piercing deep and bringing forth
From the world's ends great hosts of monstrous things,
The monsters born of shadows and of dreams.
In the bright light, even the moon,
The Sibyl, dressed in white, appears, with a gaze
Like a lynx, sharp and deep, revealing
From the farthest corners of the world great crowds of strange creatures,
The monsters born from shadows and dreams.

FIRST LOVE

When in my breast I felt my first-born love,
Thrice-noble maiden of compliant heart,
I was possessed with the strange fear that filled
The youthful princess of the ancient tale
At sight of the black man's enchanted rod.
When I experienced my first love,
A noble woman with a gentle heart,
I was hit with a strange fear,
Like the young princess from the old tale
When she saw the enchanted staff of the dark figure.

O mate, who madest first my early years
Blossom, too soon thou fleddest far from me
Nor sawest me again! Wild Fairies took
My speech, and evil demons seized my all;
Yet soul and body, my whole being shivers
From that awakening thou sangest me,
Eternal Woman! Thou wert what far Mecca
Is for the faithful's prayer to his prophet.
O far off Mecca! O eternal Fear
Of white Desire upon the shining wings
Of a black sinner! O king Love, chased like
Orestes, by a Fury serpent-haired!
Oh love, who made my early years bloom,
You left my life too soon and never returned!
Wild Fairies took my words, and evil spirits took everything from me;
Yet my soul and body, my whole being trembles
From that awakening you sang to me,
Eternal Woman! You were what distant Mecca
Is for the faithful's prayer to his prophet.
Oh far-off Mecca! Oh eternal Fear
Of pure Desire on the shining wings
Of a black sinner! Oh king Love, chased like
Orestes, by a serpent-haired Fury!

THE MADMAN

A madman chased my early childhood years
Thrice-sweet and blossoming, and seizing them—
Alas!—he crushed them in his reckless fury
Like twigs of purple-colored pomegranate!
A madman haunted my early childhood
So sweet and full of life, and took it away—
Sadly!—he shattered it in his wild fury
Like branches of purple pomegranate!

He scattered them in pieces everywhere:
Into the joyless house and in the yard,
On narrow streets, and paths, and pathless haunts,
Where persecution raves, and menace dumb
Chills all away from the pure light and air.
The madman's cursed hands hold everything
With snares and claws and stones and knives; they fall
On loneliness and on embracings, night
Or day, on sleep or wake, and everywhere!
He scattered them into pieces everywhere:
Into the joyless house and the yard,
On narrow streets, paths, and places without paths,
Where persecution rages, and silent threats
Chill everything away from the pure light and air.
The madman's cursed hands grab everything
With traps and claws and stones and knives; they fall
On loneliness and embraces, night
Or day, on sleep or wake, and everywhere!

And yonder on the streets and in the houses,
Children like me in age, whose years were filled
With bloom and sweetness, freely ran and laughed
And played. Behind me, close, the madman's snares
I heard; and then, the deadened sound of feet!
I breathed his flaming breath! And if his steps
Were slow, still wilder did his laughter hunt me!
And over there on the streets and in the houses,
Kids my age, whose youth was filled
With joy and sweetness, ran around, laughed,
And played freely. Right behind me, I heard the madman's traps;
And then, the muffled sound of footsteps!
I felt his hot breath! Even if his steps
Were slow, his wild laughter chased me even more!

Oh, for my life's cold quiverings of pain!
Oh, for the goading—not like the divine
Goading that drove the maid of Inachus,
Io, to wander on and on in frenzy;—
But like the sudden goading that smites down
The little bird when first it tries its wings!
And lo, blood of my blood the madman was!
A past, ancestral, long forgotten sin,
That, bursting forth upon me vampire-like,
Snatched from my head the dewy crown of joy!
Oh, for the cold shivers of pain in my life!
Oh, for the nagging—not like the divine
Nagging that drove the maid of Inachus,
Io, to wander endlessly in madness;—
But like the sudden jolt that strikes down
The little bird when it first tries its wings!
And look, blood of my blood, he was the madman!
A past, ancestral, long-forgotten sin,
That, bursting forth like a vampire,
Snatched from my head the fresh crown of joy!

OUR HOME

Our home has not the ugly clamoring
Nor the dumb stillness of the other homes
About and opposite. For in our home
Rare birds sing forth uncommon melodies;
And in our home-yard a young offshoot grows,
Sprung from Dodona's tree oracular!
And in the garden of our home, full thick,
The ironworts and snakeroots blossom on;
And in our home the magic mirror shines
Reflecting always in its gleaming glass
The visage of the world thrice-wonderful!
Our home isn’t filled with the noisy chaos
Or the dull silence found in other houses
Around us. Because in our home
Rare birds sing one-of-a-kind melodies;
And in our yard, a young plant grows,
Sprung from the prophetic tree of Dodona!
And in our garden, lush and vibrant,
The ironworts and snakeroots bloom;
And in our home, the magic mirror shines,
Always reflecting in its sparkling glass
The extraordinary face of the world!

The silence of our home is full of moans,
Moans vague and muffled from a distant world
Of bygone ages and of times unborn;
And in our home souls come to life and die.
Blossom from blossom blossoms forth and fades!
Old men have the white, rich, Levitic beard,
The foreheads wide of solemn contemplation,
The wrath of prophets, and the fleeting calm
And chilling threatfulness of the gray shadows.
The silence in our home is filled with moans,
Vague and muffled sounds from a distant world
Of past ages and times yet to come;
And in our home, souls are born and pass away.
Each blossom blooms and then withers away!
Old men have thick, white beards like Levites,
Wide foreheads marked by deep thought,
The anger of prophets, and the fleeting peace
And chilling menace of gray shadows.

Glowing with love-heat like resistless Satyrs,
The young men in the mind's most shady glades
Hunt ardently the bride that is pure thought.
The children drop their playthings carelessly,
And, standing in a corner motionless,
Open their eyes in thought like men full-grown.
And all, ancestors and descendants, young
Or old, have ways that challenge ridicule
And have the word that bursting forth makes slaves!
Shining with love like irresistible Satyrs,
The young men in the mind's darkest corners
Eagerly pursue the bride that is pure thought.
The children drop their toys carelessly,
And, standing still in a corner,
Open their eyes in contemplation like adults.
And all, ancestors and descendants, young
Or old, have ways that invite mockery
And have the words that, once spoken, create slaves!

But still more beautiful and pure than these,
An harmony fit for the chosen few
Fills with its ringing sounds our dwelling place,
A lightning sent from Sinai and a gleam
From great Olympus, like the mingling sounds
Of David's harp and Pindar's lyre conversing
In the star-spangled darkness of the night.
But even more beautiful and pure than these,
A perfect harmony for the chosen few
Fills our home with melodic sounds,
A flash from Sinai and a glow
From great Olympus, like the blended sounds
Of David's harp and Pindar's lyre talking
In the starry darkness of the night.

THE DEAD

Within this place, I breathe a dead man's soul;
And the dead man, a blond and beardless youth!
A youthful light and blond stirs in our home;
And moments fly, and days and years and ages.
The dead man's soul is in this lonely house
Like bitter quiet about a calm-bound ship
That longs for the sea-paths, and dreams of storms.
In this place, I feel the spirit of a dead man;
And the dead man is a young blond guy without a beard!
A youthful light and brightness fill our home;
And moments go by, along with days, years, and ages.
The dead man's spirit occupies this empty house
Like the bitter silence surrounding a calm ship
That longs for the ocean and dreams of storms.

All faces, smoked with the faint smoke that glides
From candles lighting death! All eyes, still fixed
On a sad coffin! And the mute lips, tinged
With the last kiss's bitterness, still tremble.
As for a prayer, hands are raised, and feet
Move quietly as behind a funeral.
The snow-white nakedness of the cold walls
And black luxuriance of the mourning robes
Are like discordant music of two tunes.
All faces, blurred from the soft smoke rising
From candles illuminating death! All eyes are fixed
On a somber coffin! And the silent lips, stained
With the bitterness of the last kiss, still quiver.
Hands are raised in prayer, and feet
Move softly like at a funeral.
The stark, cold whiteness of the walls
And the deep blackness of the mourning attire
Clash like two competing melodies.

The children's step is light in thoughtful care
Lest they disturb the slumber of the dead.
The old men, bent as at a pit's dark end,
Lean on the virgins' shoulders, virgins fair
Like fates benevolent and comforting.
The young men seek on endless paths to find
In Wisdom's hands the weed Oblivion.
And on the window shutters that are closed,
The clay pots with their flowers seem to be
A dead man's wreath; and the lone ray that glides
Through the small fissure is transformed within
Into a taper's light on All Souls' Day.
The children's steps are light and careful
So they don’t disturb the dead.
The old men, hunched like they're at a dark pit,
Lean on the shoulders of young, fair maidens
Like kind and comforting fates.
The young men wander endless paths to find
In Wisdom's hands the herb of Forgetfulness.
And on the closed window shutters,
The clay pots with flowers resemble
A dead man's wreath; and the lone ray that slips
Through the small crack transforms inside
Into the light of a candle on All Souls' Day.

The candle burning at the sacred image
Is flickering and snaps as if it wrestled
With death. At moments, led astray, comes here
A butterfly of varied wings and brings
In airy flesh the Ave of the soul
That did enchant the house, the house that seems
Glad for its dead yet loves and longs for him,
The dead blond youth, and claims him as its own!
And luring him, that it might hold for ever
Its chosen love relentlessly, it has
Now changed its form and turned from house to grave!
The candle burning at the sacred image
Flickers and snaps as if it’s fighting
Against death. Occasionally, a colorful butterfly
Wanders in here
And brings light from the Ave of the soul
That used to enchant the house, a house that seems
Happy for its dead yet loves and yearns for him,
The deceased blond youth, and claims him as its own!
And tempting him, so it can hold on forever
To its chosen love without end, it has
Now changed its form and shifted from house to grave!

THE COMRADE

O boy of the glad school of seven years,
With thy tall form, a shadow of all thou wert.
Thy voice had sweetness never heard before,
A font of holy water of which all
Partook with fear and longing! We forgot
With thee the book and laughed thy merry laughter;
Thou didst tear lifeless readings from our minds
Together with the pedant's torpid mullen,
And didst sow deep into our hearts the seed
Of the gold tree that dazzles with its light,
And charms, and is a tale most wonderful!
Oh boy from the joyful school of seven years,
With your tall frame, a shadow of all you used to be.
Your voice had a sweetness we had never heard before,
Like a source of holy water that everyone
Drank from with both fear and desire! We forgot
About the book and shared your happy laughter;
You wiped away lifeless readings from our minds
Along with the teacher's dull lessons,
And planted deep in our hearts the seed
Of the golden tree that dazzles with its light,
And enchants, and tells the most amazing story!

The princesses, with valiant heroes mated,
Shone in the hauntless palace of our thought,
First-born; and on imagination's meadow,
Another April bloomed. We saw Saint George,
The rider, slay the dragon and redeem
The maiden. They were not letters that thy hand's
White clay did write, but like the mystic seal
Of Solomon, it scratched a magic knot;
And thy forefinger moved within thy hand
Like fair Dionysus' thyrsus blossoming!
The princesses, paired with brave heroes,
Shined in the untouched palace of our minds,
First-born; and on imagination's field,
Another April bloomed. We saw Saint George,
The rider, defeat the dragon and save
The maiden. They were not just letters that your hand's
White clay wrote, but like Solomon’s mystical seal,
It created a magic knot;
And your index finger moved within your hand
Like fair Dionysus’ thyrsus blooming!

Amidst the restless swarm of humming children,
We had the clamor; and thou hadst the honey,
Turning attention to a prayer, thou,
O comrade of the early years that bloomed,
O chosen being, unforgettable,
Worthy of everlasting memory!
Wherever thou still art or wanderest;
Whomever thou hast followed of the two
Women, who, in the past, did stir Alcmena's
Great son, after thou camest upon them
On some crosspath; whether thou blossomest
Like the pure lily, or tower-like thou risest;
Whether thou art neglected like a crumb,
Shinest as thy country's pride, or art alone,
A stranger among strangers wandering;
Whether life's riddle or the grave's holds thee;
Whatever and wherever thou now art,
O brother mine and mate, from my lips here
Accept my distant kiss with godlike grace!
Amidst the restless swarm of energetic kids,
We had the noise; and you had the sweetness,
Focusing on a prayer, you,
O friend of my early blooming years,
O special one, unforgettable,
Worthy of lasting remembrance!
Wherever you are or roam;
Whomever you’ve followed among the two
Women who, in the past, stirred Alcmena's
Great son, after you encountered them
At some crossroad; whether you blossom
Like a pure lily, or rise like a tower;
Whether you're overlooked like a crumb,
Shining as your country's pride, or are alone,
A stranger among strangers wandering;
Whether life's puzzle or the grave holds you;
Whatever and wherever you are now,
O my brother and companion, from my lips here
Accept my distant kiss with divine grace!

RHAPSODY

Homer divine! Joy of all time and glory!
When in the coldness of a frigid school,
Upon the barrenness of a hard bench,
My teacher's graceless hands placed thee before me,
O peerless book, what I had thought would be
A lesson, proved a mighty miracle!
Homer, divine! Joy of all ages and glory!
When sitting in the cold of a freezing classroom,
On the hardness of a tough bench,
My teacher's awkward hands placed you in front of me,
O unmatched book, what I expected to be
A lesson turned into an incredible miracle!

The heavens opened wide and clear in me;
The sea, a sapphire sown with emerald;
The bench became a throne palatial;
The school, a world; the teacher, a great bard!
The sky opened up bright and clear inside me;
The sea, a sapphire sprinkled with emerald;
The bench became a grand throne;
The school transformed into a universe; the teacher, a great poet!

It was not reading nor the fruit of thought:
A vision it was that shone most wonderful,
A melody my ears had never heard.
It wasn’t just reading or thinking:
It was a vision that shone so beautifully,
A melody my ears had never heard.

In the great cavern that a forest deep
Of poplars and of cypresses encircles,
In the great fragrant cavern that the glow
Of burning cedar beats with pleasant warmth,
Calypso of the shining hair spins not
Her web with golden shuttle; nor sings she
With limpid voice. But lifting up her hands,
She pours her curses from her flaming heart
Against the jealous gods:
"O mortal men
Adored by the immortal goddesses,
Who on Olympus shared with you their love's
Ambrosia, and mortals crushed to dust
By jealous gods!..."
The goddess's awful curse
Makes the fresh celeries and violets fade,
And, like the hail sent by the heaven's wrath,
It burns the clusters on the fruitful vines!
In the vast cave surrounded by a deep forest
Of poplars and cypress trees,
In the fragrant cave warmed by the glow
Of burning cedar,
Calypso with her shining hair no longer
Spins her web with a golden shuttle or sings
With her clear voice. Instead, raising her hands,
She pours out her curses from her fiery heart
Against the jealous gods:
"O mortal men
Worshiped by immortal goddesses,
Who on Olympus shared their love's
Ambrosia with you, and mortals crushed to dust
By jealous gods!..."
The goddess's terrible curse
Makes the fresh celery and violets wilt,
And like hail from the fury of the heavens,
It scorches the bunches on the fruitful vines!

The hero far renowned of Ithaca
Alone heeds not the flaming curse, that he,
A wanderer, in the Nymph's heart did light
Unwittingly. But sea-wrecked and sea-beaten,
He sits without, immovable, with eyes
Fixed far away; and thus remembering
His native island's shores, for ever weeps
Upon the coast and near the sea thrice-deep.
The white sea-gull that often in its flight
Plunges its wings into the brine to catch
The fish, and the lone falcon perched afar
In the deep forest, lonely and remote,
Listen and answer to the hero's wail.
The famous hero from Ithaca
Doesn’t care about the burning curse that he,
A wanderer, unwittingly sparked in the Nymph's heart.
But after being shipwrecked and battered by the sea,
He sits outside, motionless, with his gaze
Staring far away; as he remembers
The shores of his homeland, he weeps
Endlessly on the shore, near the deep sea.
The white seagull that often dives
Its wings into the saltwater to catch
Fish, and the solitary falcon perched far away
In the deep, lonely forest,
Listen to and respond to the hero's cry.

Oh, for my phantasy's revealed first vision!
Oh, for the baring of the beautiful
Before me! Lo, the dusty, dark-brown land
Changes into a Nymph's isle lily-white!
The humble fisher lass upon the rock,
Into Calypso of the shining hair, love-born!
My heart, a traveller into a thousand
Lands, thirsting for one country, which is love!
Oh, for the first glimpse of my dreams revealed!
Oh, for the unveiling of beauty
Before me! Look, the dusty, dark-brown land
Transforms into a Nymph's island, pure white!
The simple fisher girl on the rock,
Becomes Calypso with her shining hair, born of love!
My heart, a traveler through a thousand
Lands, yearning for one place, which is love!

And lo, my soul is, ever since, a lyre
Of double strings that echoes with its sound
The harmony thrice ancient, curse or wail!
Joy of all time and glory, godlike Homer!
And now, my soul has, since then, become a lyre
Of double strings that resonates with its sound
The harmony thrice ancient, curse or wail!
Joy of all ages and glory, godlike Homer!

IDYL

Now when the tide has covered all the land,
Making the pier a sea, the street a strand,
And the boat casts anchor at my threshold;
Now when I see, wherever I may glance,
The water's victory, the billow's glory,
And see the rising tide a ruling empress;
Now when a playful and good-minded flood
Closes about the houses, plants, and men
Fondly, in a soft-flowing, sweet embrace;
Now when the air, the planter of the tree
Of Health, raised by the great sea's breath, digs deep
Into the open breasts of living things;
Now that the tide has covered all the land,
Turning the pier into a sea and the street into a shore,
And the boat has anchored right at my door;
Now when I look around, no matter where I turn,
I see the water’s victory, the beauty of the waves,
And watch the rising tide like a powerful queen;
Now when a playful, gentle current
Wraps around the houses, plants, and people
Affectionately, in a sweet embrace;
Now when the air, which supports the tree
Of Health, nourished by the sea's breath, reaches deep
Into the open hearts of all living things;

Now, I remember her, the little lass
Who had the sea's pure dew, and, like a wave
Resistless, surpassed the tide in vehemence.
Now I recall the little nimble lass,
Life's victory, blossoming youth's proud glory,
And joy's own throne. Now I remember her.
Now, I remember her, the little girl
Who had the ocean’s pure dew and, like a wave
Unstoppable, outshone the tide in strength.
Now I recall the lively little girl,
Life’s victory, the proud glory of blooming youth,
And joy’s own throne. Now I remember her.

Her face was like a cloudless early dawn;
Her hair like moonlight shimmering upon
The restless wave; her passing, like the flash
Of a swift fish that in the night swims by
Upon its silver path; her eyes were tinged
With the deep color of the sea beneath
Black clouds; her voice, the sound of a calm night
Upon the beach; her chiseled dimples twin
Upon her cheeks were overfilled with smiles
That Loves might drink from them to slake their thirst.
Her face was like a clear early morning;
Her hair shone like moonlight on
The restless waves; her passing was like the flash
Of a quick fish swimming by at night
On its silver path; her eyes were colored
With the deep hue of the sea beneath
Dark clouds; her voice was the sound of a peaceful night
On the beach; her perfectly shaped dimples on
Her cheeks overflowed with smiles
That Love might drink from to quench its thirst.

Boy-like, she stepped on nimble foot and free,
Boldly and daringly with fearless look,
A child's soul dwelling in a woman's flesh.
Boyish, she moved with light steps and freedom,
Confidently and boldly with an unafraid gaze,
A child’s spirit living in a woman’s body.

And when the high tide covered all the land,
Making the pier a sea, the street a strand,
And when the boat cast anchor at my threshold,
Then from her home the little girl came forth
Half bare, half clad, robed in the robe of light
In a swift dancing flood that revelled full
Of water-lust and crowns of seething foam.
And when the high tide covered all the land,
Turning the pier into a sea and the street into a shore,
And when the boat anchored right at my doorstep,
Then the little girl came out from her home,
Half naked, half dressed, wrapped in a robe of light,
In a quick, dancing flow that celebrated
With a desire for water and crowns of bubbling foam.

She gave her orders to the sea; she ruled
The tide and forward drove the foaming waves,
Just as a shepherd lass, her white-clad sheep.
Her native country, first and last, the sea!
And whenever she passed, a Venus new
Seemed rising from the shining water's depths.
She commanded the sea; she controlled
The tide and pushed the foaming waves forward,
Just like a shepherd girl with her white sheep.
Her forever homeland is the sea!
And whenever she walked by, a new Venus
Seemed to rise from the shining depths of the water.

The fisherman, a primitive world's breed,
The sum of Christian and of Satyr blood,
Returning from his fruitful fishing path,
Looked upon her as on an evil tempter
And on a sacred image; and his oars
Hung on his hands inert as palsy stricken,
And the swift-winging bark stood like a rock;
And, marble-like, the fisherman within
Gazed with religious trembling and desire,
Exclaiming as in trance: "O holy Virgin!"
The fisherman, a product of a simple world,
A mix of Christian and Satyr blood,
Returning from his successful fishing trip,
Glanced at her as if she were a wicked temptress
And a sacred icon; his oars
Dropped in his hands, frozen as if paralyzed,
And the swift boat stood still like a rock;
And, like a statue, the fisherman inside
Stared with a mix of religious awe and longing,
Exclaiming as if in a trance: "O holy Virgin!"

AT THE WINDMILL

About the windmill, the old ruin, when
The smile of dawn shines in its rosy tinge,
The fisherboys now stir the silent air
With sudden ringing shouts and joyful plays;
And the light barks that, fastened, wait their coming,
Flutter impatiently like flapping wings
Of birds whose feet are bound. And all about,
The lake-like sea revels in shimmers white
Like a wide-open pearl shell on the beach.
About the windmill, the old ruin, when
The dawn's light shines in its rosy glow,
The fishermen's boys now stir the quiet air
With loud shouts and joyful games;
And the light boats tied up wait for them,
Fluttering impatiently like flapping wings
Of trapped birds. And all around,
The lake-like sea sparkles with bright glimmers
Like a wide-open pearl shell on the shore.

About the windmill, the old ruin, when
The noon's beams burn like red-hot iron bars,
A laden sleep draws with its heavy breath
All weary skippers and all mariners:
The harpoons creak not in the hand's hard clasp;
The fish alone stir in the realm of dew;
The calm lagoon about is all agleam,
A shield of silver, plaited with pure gold.
About the windmill, the old ruin, when
The noon's rays burn like red-hot iron,
A heavy sleep pulls in with deep breaths
All the tired sailors and seafarers:
The harpoons don’t creak in their tight grip;
Only the fish move in the dewy realm;
The calm lagoon glows all around,
A shield of silver woven with pure gold.

Far by the windmill, the old ruin, when
The sun is setting, decked in all his glory,
The boys go running, looking for pumice stones;
And lads and lasses, for sweet furtive glances;
And old men, lingering for memories.
Old age is calm, and youth considerate.
And the lagoon about, a purple glow,
A garden thickly planted with blue gentians.
By the windmill, near the old ruins, when
The sun is setting, shining in all its glory,
The boys run around, searching for pumice stones;
And the guys and girls share sweet, secret glances;
And old men linger, lost in memories.
Old age is peaceful, and youth is contemplative.
And the lagoon glows with a purple hue,
A garden lushly filled with blue gentians.

Far by the windmill, the old ruin, when
The secret midnight glides by silently,
Sea Nereids, brought on the wings of air
From the sea caves of Fairies on their steeds
Of mist with manes of radiating light,
Sing songs, and bathe their diamond forms, and love,
While round about the princess-like lagoon
Wears as her royal robe the star-spun sky.
Far by the windmill, the old ruin, when
The secret midnight quietly passes by,
Sea Nereids, carried on air's wings
From the ocean caves of Fairies on their steeds
Of mist with glowing light manes,
Sing songs, bathe their sparkling forms, and love,
While the lagoon, like a princess,
Wears the starry sky as her royal robe.

Far by the windmill, the old ruin, ere
The smile of dawn shine with its rosy tinge,
The hosts of tyrant slayers mount from below
And kiss the earth war-nurtured and war-glad.
They raise again the ruin to a castle
With rifles singing back to victories;
And the lagoon is full of flashes swift,
Like a dark eye kindled with fiery wrath.
Far by the windmill, the old ruin, before
The dawn's smile shines in its rosy hue,
The forces of freedom fighters rise from below
And greet the earth, born of war and ready for battle.
They rebuild the ruin into a castle
With rifles echoing past victories;
And the lagoon sparkles with swift flashes,
Like a dark eye ignited with fiery rage.

WHAT THE LAGOON SAYS

I have the sweetness of the lake and have
The bitterness of the great sea. But now,
Alas! my sweetness is a little drop;
My bitterness, a flood. For the cold winter,
The great corsair, has come with the north wind,
Death's king. My azure blood has slowly flowed
Out of my veins and gone to bring new life
To the deep seas. A shroud weed-woven wraps me.
I have the sweetness of the lake and the
Bitterness of the vast sea. But now,
Oh no! my sweetness is just a small drop;
My bitterness is overwhelming. The cold winter,
The great pirate, has arrived with the north wind,
The king of death. My blue blood has gradually flowed
Out of my veins and gone to bring new life
To the deep seas. A shroud made of seaweed wraps around me.

My little islands as my tombstones stand,
And yonder well-built weirs are like young trees
That droop above my grave bereft of water.
My small islands stand as my tombstones,
And those sturdy weirs look like young trees
That hang over my grave, dried up and without water.

But even so in the death's cold clasp, I hear
Within my breast a secret voiceless flutter
Like the young fish's flurry when, transfixed,
It is dragged by the spear out of the sea.
For I still dream of the sweet breath of love,
And wait for the hot summer's kiss and yours,
O angels of good tidings and new life,
Spring breezes, sources of my dreams and love!
But even in death's cold grip, I hear
Within my heart a quiet, secret flutter
Like the young fish's panic when, caught,
It’s pulled by the spear out of the sea.
For I still dream of the sweet breath of love,
And wait for the warm summer's kiss and yours,
O angels of good news and new life,
Spring breezes, the source of my dreams and love!

PINKS

Fair pinks, with your breath, I have drunk your soul!
Brown is the fisherman, and brown the land
With the sea brine, the south wind, and the sun;
And round the brown land's neck, like necklace
Of coral, grow the pinks. Pinks of the gardens,
And pinks of the windows; pinks like crowns and stars;
Gifts good for any hand, and ornaments
For any breast. O flowers blossoming
In pleasant rows along the houses' stairs,
You sprinkle each man's path with fragrances;
And now and then, you bow, touched by the dress
Of the young girl who, breeze-like, passes by.
Fair pinks, with your fragrance, I have taken in your essence!
Brown is the fisherman, and brown is the land
With the salty sea, the south wind, and the sun;
And around the brown land's neck, like a necklace
Of coral, the pinks bloom. Pinks from the gardens,
And pinks from the windows; pinks like crowns and stars;
Perfect gifts for any hand, and decorations
For any heart. O flowers blossoming
In beautiful rows along the steps of the houses,
You sprinkle every man’s path with scents;
And now and then, you sway, brushed by the dress
Of the young girl who, like a breeze, passes by.

Pinks full and pinks faint-colored; flowers that cause
No languor as the roses nor refresh,
Like jasmines, flesh and soul; but whose scent has
Something of the sharp breath of the lagoon,
Even when you are pale like fainting virgins,
And even when a world-destroying fire
Enflames your petals without burning you!
Pinks in full bloom and light pinks; flowers that don’t
Weigh you down like roses, nor refresh,
Like jasmines, body and spirit; but whose scent has
A hint of the sharp breeze from the lagoon,
Even when you’re pale like fainting maidens,
And even when a world-destroying fire
Ignites your petals without burning you!

Pinks, that display now your form's nakedness
Like children's bodies freshly bathed, and now
The varied ornaments of senseless dwarfs,
And now the purple of great emperors!
All the transporting music of the red,
Like that of many tuneful instruments,
Springs from your heart and knows no end, but plays
Before my eyes its lasting harmonies.
Sweet pinks, with your breath, I have drunk your soul!
Pinks, that now show the bare shape of your form
Like children's bodies just out of the bath, and now
The random decorations of pointless little figures,
And now the royal purple of mighty emperors!
All the uplifting music of the red,
Like the sound of many melodic instruments,
Emerges from your heart and never stops, but plays
Before my eyes its everlasting harmonies.
Sweet pinks, with your scent, I have taken in your essence!

RUINS

I turned back to the golden haunts of childhood,
And back on the white path of youth; I turned
To see the wonder palace built for me
Once by the holy hands of sacred Loves.
I looked back at the bright spots of my childhood,
And reflected on the clear path of my youth; I turned
To see the incredible palace that was once built for me
By the loving hands of those I cherished.

The path was hidden by the thorny briars;
The golden haunts, burned by the midday sun;
An earthquake brought the wonder palace low;
The path was hidden by thorny bushes;
The golden fields, burned by the midday sun;
An earthquake brought down the magnificent palace;

And now amidst the ruins and ashes, I
Am left alone and palsy-stricken; snakes
And lizards, pains and hatreds dwell now here
In constant loathful brotherhood with me.
An earthquake brought the wonder palace low!
And now, among the ruins and ashes, I
Am left alone and shaking; snakes
And lizards, pains and resentments live here
In constant, awful company with me.
An earthquake brought down the magnificent palace!

PENELOPE

Wars distant, tempests wild, and foreign lands
Keep thy life-mate for years and years away;
Dangers and scornings threaten thee; and care
With guile and wrath gird thee, Penelope.
Wars far away, wild storms, and distant lands
Keep your partner away for many years;
Threats of danger and scorn surround you, and worry
With deceit and anger trap you, Penelope.

About thee, enemies and revellers!
But thou wilt hear, and look, and wait for none
But him; and on thy loom thou weavest always
And then unweavest the thread of thy true love,
Penelope.
Enemies and party-goers are all around you!
But you will hear, see, and wait for no one
Except him; and on your loom, you always weave
And then unweave the thread of your true love,
Penelope.

Than Europe's goods and Asia's
Even a greater treasure is thy kiss;
Thy loom, much higher than a royal throne;
Thy brow an altar, O Penelope!
More precious than Europe's treasures and Asia’s
Is your kiss;
Your loom is far more impressive than a royal throne;
Your brow is an altar, O Penelope!

Mortals and gods know only one more priceless
Than thine own loom, thy forehead, or thy kiss:
Thy mate, the king thou always longest for,
Penelope. Yet even though strange lands
Keep him away from thee, and distant wars,
And monstrous Scyllas, and the guileful Sirens,
Not even they can blot him from thy soul,
Him, thy thought's whitest light, Penelope!
Mortals and gods know only one thing more valuable
Than your loom, your forehead, or your kiss:
Your partner, the king you always yearn for,
Penelope. Yet even though strange lands
Keep him away from you, along with distant wars,
And monstrous Scyllas, and the clever Sirens,
Not even they can erase him from your soul,
Him, your mind's brightest light, Penelope!

A NEW ODE BY THE OLD ALCAEUS

To Lesbos' shores, where the year's seasons always
Sprinkle the field with flowers, and where glad
The rosy-footed Graces always play
With the young maidens, once the stream of Hebrus,
Hand-like, brought Orpheus' orphan lyre; and since
That time, our island is a sacred shrine
Of Harmony, and its wind's breath, a song!
To the shores of Lesbos, where every season of the year
Blankets the fields with flowers, and where the joyful
Graces with rosy feet always dance
With the young maidens, once the river Hebrus,
Like a hand, delivered Orpheus' orphaned lyre; and since
That time, our island has been a sacred place
Of Harmony, and the breath of its winds is a song!

The soul Aeolian took up the lyre
Born upon Thracian lands, as foster child;
And on its golden strings the restless beatings
Of Sappho's and Erinna's flaming hearts
Were echoed burningly.
The spirit of Aeolus picked up the lyre
Born in Thracian lands, like a child of the land;
And on its golden strings, the restless rhythms
Of Sappho's and Erinna's passionate hearts
Were echoed fiercely.

And I, who fight
Always against blind mobs and tyrants deaf,
I, the pride of the chosen few, the stay
Of the great best, returning from exile,
A billow-tossed world-wanderer, did stir
The selfsame lyre with a new quill and breathed
Upon its strings a new heroic breath.
And I, who fight
Always against mindless crowds and deaf tyrants,
I, the pride of the chosen few, the support
Of the greatest ones, returning from exile,
A world traveler tossed by waves, stirred
The same lyre with a new pen and breathed
A fresh heroic spirit into its strings.

Upon the love-adorned and verdant island,
Like a god's trident, now Alcaeus' quill
Wakens the storm of sounds, and angrily
He strikes with words that are like poisoned arrows
Direct and merciless against his foe,
Whether a Pittacus or Myrsilus.
On the love-filled and green island,
Like a god’s trident, now Alcaeus' pen
Stirs up a storm of sounds, and fiercely
He strikes with words that are like poisoned arrows
Direct and ruthless against his enemy,
Whether it’s Pittacus or Myrsilus.

In vain did tender love reveal before me
On rose-beds Lycus, the young lad, with eyes
And hair coal-black, with rosy garlands bound,
And Sappho of the honeyed smile, the pure,
A muse among the muses, and the mother
Of a strange modesty. Love moved me not!
In vain did gentle love show itself to me
On rose beds, Lycus, the young guy, with eyes
And hair black as coal, adorned with rosy garlands,
And Sappho with the sweet smile, the pure,
A muse among muses, and the mother
Of an unusual modesty. Love did not touch me!

I raised an altar to the war-god Ares;
And on my walls, I hung war ornaments,
Weapons exulting in the battle's roar.
I sang of the sword bound with ivory,
My brother's spoil from distant Babylon.
I saw my hapless country's ship tossed here
And there, and beaten by the giant waves
Of anarchy; and with my golden Lyre,
Whose voice is mightier than the wild fury
Of a tempestuous sea, I called on War,
The War who revels in men's blood, to come
As a destroyer or deliverer.
I built an altar to the war god Ares;
And on my walls, I hung war decorations,
Weapons celebrating the sound of battle.
I sang of the sword adorned with ivory,
My brother's prize from far-off Babylon.
I watched my unfortunate country's ship tossed
Back and forth, battered by the massive waves
Of chaos; and with my golden lyre,
Whose sound is stronger than the wild rage
Of a stormy sea, I called on War,
The War that thrives on men's blood, to come
As either a destroyer or a savior.

And when the war did come in savage din,
Brought upon Lesbos by the might of Athens,
With heart exultant, I saluted him:
"Hail, war of glory!"
Yet, alas and thrice
Alas! Amidst the world of death and ruins,
Though eager warrior and heavy armed,
I felt the solid earth beneath me shake;
My vengefulness, fade into fleeting mist;
My breastplate, press on me like a nightmare;
And my white-crested helmet, like a tombstone!
And when the war finally broke out with a fierce noise,
Brought to Lesbos by the power of Athens,
With an excited heart, I welcomed it:
"Hail, glorious war!"
Yet, oh how sad
Oh! In the midst of death and destruction,
Even though I was an eager warrior, heavily armed,
I felt the solid ground beneath me shake;
My desire for revenge faded into thin air;
My breastplate pressed on me like a nightmare;
And my white-crested helmet felt like a tombstone!

Confusion was my harbor; and I felt
In me Life's longing win the victory.
And while the nations twain, like maddened bulls
Goad-driven, rushed upon each other's death,
And stern Alecto spread about the flames
Of Tartarus, I saw before mine eyes
—O sight enchanting!—Lesbos' luring shores!
Confusion was my refuge; and I felt
Within me Life's desire winning out.
And while the two nations, like crazed bulls
Driven by rage, charged towards each other’s doom,
And fierce Alecto spread the flames
Of Tartarus, I saw before my eyes
—Oh, captivating sight!—Lesbos' tempting shores!

Never before were they so beautiful
With love and verdant! There I gazed on Lycus,
The boy with eyes and hair coal-black that never
Before had touched my heart so powerfully.
And the Muse Sappho of the honeyed smile
Glittered before me, pure and violet crowned;
And her strange modesty bewitched my tongue
With power unwonted until then; and I,
The strong, silently feasted on her beauty!
Never before had they been so beautiful
Full of love and vibrant green! There I looked at Lycus,
The boy with coal-black eyes and hair who had never
Touched my heart so deeply before.
And the Muse Sappho, with her sweet smile,
Sparkled in front of me, pure and wearing a violet crown;
And her unique modesty enchanted my tongue
With a strength I had never experienced before; and I,
The strong one, silently feasted on her beauty!

And while about the maddened Ares raged,
Reaper of men and vanquisher of rocks,
With my soul's eyes, I followed on the trail
Of the Lyre-God, who passed that way, returning
From the Hyperboreans' land. He passed
Aloft, crowned with a golden diadem,
Upon a chariot drawn by snow-white swans,
Towards his Delphic palaces, flower-decked,
With nightingales and April on his train.
And while the furious Ares raged,
Reaper of men and conqueror of mountains,
With my soul's eyes, I followed the path
Of the Lyre-God, who came back from
The land of the Hyperboreans. He went
High above, wearing a golden crown,
In a chariot pulled by snow-white swans,
Heading towards his flower-adorned palaces,
With nightingales and spring following him.

Oh, would that I might live to touch them! Would
That I might hold their charms in my embrace,
Those charms so sweet and guileful and divine!
Oh, how I wish I could live to touch them! Would
That I could hold their beauty in my arms,
That beauty so sweet, enchanting, and divine!

And at the thought—alas, and thrice alas!—
I threw my trusted sword and shield away,
And fled, a shameful coward and a traitor!
And at the thought—oh no, and oh no again!—
I tossed aside my trusty sword and shield,
And ran away, a shameful coward and a traitor!

FRAGMENTS FROM THE SONG TO THE SUN
1899

IMAGINATION

Imagination, mistress, come!
Come thou leading master, mind!
And you, O tireless workers, come,
Water-Fairies of the Rhythm!
Come, and from Desire's great depths,
And from the Reason's lofty heights,
Bring, oh bring me lasting flowers
Wrought on marble and on gold!
Bring me words of splendid sound!
Build with them the palace high!
And within it raise aloft
The Sun's image all-transcending
Wrought of sunlight gleaming bright!
Imagination, let's go!
Come, you guiding master, mind!
And you, O tireless workers, join in,
Water-Fairies of the Rhythm!
Come, and from the depths of Desire,
And from the heights of Reason,
Bring me, oh bring me lasting flowers
Made of marble and gold!
Bring me words that sound beautiful!
Build with them an impressive palace!
And within it, raise up
The Sun's image, transcendent,
Made of bright, shining sunlight!

THE GODS

And the first-born man beheld
The sun rise in the east;
And from within his bosom lo,
A stream of music rose,
An answer sweet to the sun's light,
A music stream of hymns,
Countless words and countless praises
To the fountain of the day!
And—O miracle!—all hymns
And countless words and praises
Spread in waves from end to end!
And taking flesh in time,
They became great gods of light
And signs of harmony!
And the firstborn man saw
The sun rise in the east;
And from deep within him, look,
A flow of music came out,
A sweet response to the sun's light,
A stream of hymns,
Countless words and endless praises
To the source of the day!
And—oh, what a miracle!—all hymns
And countless words and praises
Spread in waves from one end to the other!
And as they took form in time,
They became great gods of light
And symbols of harmony!

MY GOD

Wounded with the mighty love
Of my mistress Life,
I wander on, her loyal herald
And her worshipper.
To thy mystic suppers call
Me not, O Galilean,
Prophet of the misty dream,
Denier of things that are!
Crowned with lotus, show me not
Nirvana's senseless bliss!
Yet, do thou, O Sun, shine forth
About, within, above;
Shine upon my love and make
A world of the Earth planet!
Shine life-giving with thy light,
O my Sun and God!
Injured by the deep love
Of my lady Life,
I continue as her loyal messenger
And follower.
Don’t invite me to your mystical feasts,
O Galilean,
Prophet of the unclear vision,
Skeptic of the real!
Crowned with a lotus, don’t show me
Nirvana's empty joy!
Yet, you, O Sun, shine brightly
All around, within, above;
Shine on my love and create
A world on Earth!
Shine life-giving with your light,
O my Sun and God!

HELEN

... She gave not me, but made a breathing image
Of the light air of heaven and gave that
To royal Priam's son! And yet he thought
That he had me—a vain imagining!...
... She didn't give me, but created a living image
Of the gentle breeze from heaven and gave that
To royal Priam's son! And still he believed
That he had me—a silly illusion!...

Euripides, Helen, 33-36.
Euripides, Helen, 33-36.

Helen am I! In the Sun's fountain
Have I taken birth!
I am the Sun-god's golden dream,
And unto him I go!
Not about me, but about
Mine image, which the gods
Had wrought, life's perfect counterfeit,
Recklessly gods and heroes
Plunged into war and war's destruction!
For the Cimmerian
Enchanter carried far away
As his own mate my shade
Thrice-beautiful, that rose to life
From Night's embrace in an
Enchanted land and hour. I am
The bride intangible,
Inviolable, beyond all reach!
Helen am I!
Helen, that’s me! I was born in the Sun’s fountain!
I’m the golden dream of the Sun god,
And I’m going to him!
It’s not about me, but about
My image, which the gods
Created, life’s perfect imitation.
Carelessly, gods and heroes
Dove into war and its destruction!
For the Cimmerian
Enchanter took my shade
Far away as his own partner,
Three times beautiful, who came to life
From Night’s embrace in an
Enchanted land and moment. I am
The intangible bride,
Untouchable, beyond all reach!
Helen, that’s me!

THE LYRE

I know a lyre that is as priceless
As a sacred amulet;
A spirit with a master hand
Made it and cast it here.
No mortal hand of skill or love
Or power rouses it,
Nor makes it answer to the touch
With sound or voice or sigh.
Even the wise and beautiful,
The northwind and the breeze
Cannot awaken the sweet lyre!
Only the Sun-god's beams,
They with one kiss alone can make
Its sun-enamored strings
Sing Siren-like!
I know of a lyre that's as precious
As a sacred charm;
A spirit with an expert touch
Created it and brought it here.
No human hands, no matter their skill or care
Or power, can bring it to life,
Nor make it respond to a touch
With sound or voice or sigh.
Even the wise and beautiful,
The north wind and the breeze
Cannot awaken the sweet lyre!
Only the Sun-god's rays,
With just one kiss can make
Its sun-loving strings
Sing like a Siren!

GIANTS' SHADOWS

Like moanings of the sea, I hear
Voices ascend from darkness:
Are they the giants' shadows moving?
—Shadow, who art thou? Speak!
—I am the Telamonian!
And see, within me I
Close the whole sun that never sets
Though Hades yawn about;
Weep not for me!
—And thou beside him?
—The heart of Teutons' land
Brought me to life. A maker, I,
Maker sublime of worlds
Olympian, have even here
In Tartarus' dark realm
One longing for my heart, one thirst:
I long and thirst for light!
Like the moaning of the sea, I hear
Voices rising from the darkness:
Are they the shadows of giants moving?
—Shadow, who are you? Speak!
—I am the Telamonian!
And look, inside me I
Hold the entire sun that never sets
Even though Hades yawns around;
Don't cry for me!
—And you beside him?
—The heart of the Teutons' land
Brought me to life. I am a creator,
A magnificent maker of worlds
Olympian, even here
In the dark realm of Tartarus
I have one desire in my heart, one thirst:
I long and thirst for light!

THE HOLY VIRGIN IN HELL

The chariot moves, drawn by wings
Of Cherub Spirits, on!
In Hell, the Holy Virgin gleams!
"Mercy, O sunlike Lady!"
The damnèd cry and beat their breasts
Amidst the flames that burn,
Fed by the great abyss. Among them,
A sudden proud complaint
Is heard: "A worshipper was I
Of the great Sun; was this
A cause for night to fetter me?
Tell me, O sunlike Lady!
The light of life I sucked, did that
Become the Hell's embrace
And Satan's kiss for me?"
The chariot moves, pulled by wings
Of Cherub Spirits, going forward!
In Hell, the Holy Virgin shines!
"Have mercy, O sunlike Lady!"
The damned shout and beat their chests
Amid the burning flames,
Fed by the vast abyss. Among them,
A sudden proud complaint
Is heard: "I was a worshipper
Of the great Sun; was this
Reason enough for night to trap me?
Tell me, O sunlike Lady!
The light of life I absorbed, did that
Turn into the embrace of Hell
And Satan's kiss for me?"

SUNRISE

The white swans gently drag their boats
Of ivory; bright beams
Glimmer as through a veil of agate;
And coral-wrought, the crowns
Shine on fair locks like amber gleaming.
A pearl lake dreamlike lives
With water lilies studded.
Azure-browed Fairies revelling
Quaff wine of honey gold;
And mighty riders steal away
With brides thrice-beautiful.
But thou, an archer mightier,
Risest unmaking all
The multitudes of binding charms
With the one charm of light,
O God of wing-sped chariot!
The white swans gracefully pull their boats
Made of ivory; bright rays
Shimmer through a misty veil;
With coral crowns
Shining on lovely hair like sparkling amber.
A dreamy pearl lake
Is dotted with water lilies.
Azure-eyed Fairies celebrating
Sip wine made from golden honey;
And powerful riders take away
Brides who are three times as beautiful.
But you, a stronger archer,
Rise up and break apart
All the chains of enchantment
With the single power of light,
O God of the swift chariot!

DOUBLE SONG

The lithesome maiden stood thrice-fair,
Her eyes like gems agleam!
"I pour the crimson wine of love
In empty cups of gold!"
—"Maiden, I am the nestless bird;
Flowery boughs bar not
My way. Bound for bright suns magnetic,
I sail through darkness blind.
Seer am I and worshipper
Of all that is and lives!
I am the harp of thousand strings
Of countless sounds!"
—"Thou blind!
Seest thou not within mine eyes
The magnetism and glory
Of all the suns?"
The beautiful girl was three times more stunning,
Her eyes sparkled like gems!
"I pour the red wine of love
Into empty golden cups!"
—"Girl, I am the wandering bird;
Flowering branches don’t
Block my way. I’m heading towards bright, captivating suns,
Navigating through dark blindness.
I am a seer and a worshiper
Of everything that exists and breathes!
I am the harp with a thousand strings
Playing countless melodies!"
—"You blind one!
Do you not see in my eyes
The magnetism and glory
Of all the suns?"

THE SUN-BORN

On great Olympus, a feast of joy!
The gods divide the earth;
The light-bestower is away;
Forgotten he will be.
And the light-giver came and nodded
To the blue sea; and lo,
The sea was rent with fruitful heave!
And the Sun's island rose
With a thousand beauties crowned;
And makers lived upon the island,
Beings above all men;
And they made statues masterful,
All beautiful like gods
And living as immortals live!
On Mount Olympus, a joyful feast!
The gods divided the earth;
The light-bringer is absent;
He will be forgotten.
Then the light-giver arrived and nodded
To the blue sea; and suddenly,
The sea erupted with abundant life!
And the Sun's island appeared
Decorated with a thousand wonders;
And creators lived on the island,
Beings above all humans;
And they made magnificent statues,
All beautiful like gods
And alive like immortals!

ON THE HEIGHTS OF PARADISE

The little house I built for thee
To dwell therein, enchanter,
Even that—to my care-bent grief—
Becomes a heavy grave.
Yet, little soul of lily whiteness,
Spare me thy sad complaint;
For on the heights of paradise,
I wander longing and
I search. I search and wait for it.
And on the crossroads wide
Of the suns, I shall find a house
Snow-white that even eagles
High-flying never face; a house
That Visions great alone
May touch. Therein I shall enthrone thee!
The small house I built for you
To live in, enchantress,
Even that—my heart filled with sorrow—
Has turned into a heavy tomb.
Yet, pure little soul,
Please spare me your sad complaints;
Because in the heights of paradise,
I wander with longing and
I search. I search and wait for it.
And at the wide crossroads
Of the suns, I will find a house
Snow-white that even eagles
Soaring high never approach; a house
Only great Visions may touch. There, I will place you on a throne!

THE STRANGER

When first the vaulting palm-leaves spread
Their shelter over thee,
The golden Cyclads danced about
With merry shouts and laughter.
But now,—O nakedness of plains
And mountains! Withering
Of green leaves everywhere! Thorns suck
The green blood of the vines!
No April looked on thee again;
And on the desert land,
The wars of elements and beasts
Rage furious. But thee
The snow-white swans bring back no more;
Thou art for ever guest
At the Hyperboreans' feast.
When the tall palm leaves first opened up
Their shelter over you,
The golden Cyclads danced around
With cheerful shouts and laughter.
But now—oh, the emptiness of the plains
And mountains! The green leaves are fading
Everywhere! Thorns suck out
The vibrant life from the vines!
No April has smiled upon you again;
And in the barren land,
The battles between the elements and beasts
Rage violently. But you
The snow-white swans no longer bring back;
You are forever a guest
At the Hyperboreans' feast.

AN ORPHIC HYMN

Far from the footpaths of the thoughtless,
An Orphic priest and bard,
I bring to light again a hymn
Of a thrice-ancient cult.
For until now my thought flowed on,
A river under earth.
Amidst men's tumult my lyre's rhythm,
A sudden wonder rose.
At night I start, at night I climb
The mountain difficult;
I wish alone and first to greet
Light Apollonian
While among mortal men below
Darkness and sleep shall reign.
Away from the paths of the careless,
An Orphic priest and poet,
I bring to light a hymn
From an ancient cult.
Until now, my thoughts flowed on,
Like a river underground.
In the chaos of humanity, the rhythm of my lyre,
A sudden wonder emerged.
At night I rise, at night I climb
The challenging mountain;
I want to be the first to greet
The bright Apollonian
While down below among mortals
Darkness and sleep reign.

THE POET

Sun made the lily white,
The glory of the flowery earth;
Sun made the swan, which is
The lily of a life white-winged;
The eagle, whom he lures
Spell-bound to his great heights,
And the gold shimmer of the moon,
The lovers' loving comrade.
And then he dreamed a creature fuller
Of lilies, eagles, swans, and shimmers,
And made the poet. He
Alone beholds thee face to face,
O God; and he alone,
Reaching into thy heart, reveals
To us thy mysteries.
The sun created the white lily,
The pride of the blooming earth;
The sun fashioned the swan, which is
The white-winged lily of life;
The eagle, whom he calls
Drawn to his great heights,
And the golden glow of the moon,
The companion of lovers.
Then he envisioned a being more profound
With lilies, eagles, swans, and glimmers,
And made the poet. He
Is the only one who sees you up close,
O God; and he alone,
Reaching into your heart, reveals
To us your mysteries.

KRISHNA'S WORDS

I am the light within the sun,
The flush within the fire;
And on the page of the sacred book,
I am the mystic word.
The men of mighty deeds call me
Glory; the wise men, wisdom.
Of things existing and of truth,
I am the fountain head!
I am the life of all that is!
Beings and pearls are bound
Together with one thread; and that,
Is I! Maya alone,
The sorceress, behind me follows
Beguiling me. But I
Battle with her to victory!
I am the light of the sun,
The warmth of the fire;
And on the pages of the sacred text,
I am the sacred word.
The heroes call me
Glory; the wise call me wisdom.
Of all that exists and of truth,
I am the source!
I am the life of everything!
All beings and pearls are connected
By one thread; and that,
Is me! Maya alone,
The enchantress, follows behind me
Tempting me. But I
Fight her and win!

THE TOWER OF THE SUN

Away beyond the world's far edge,
And where the heavens end,
The tower of the sun shines bright
Dazzling the mortal's mind.
Once mighty princes, sons of kings,
Went on a chase most wonderful,
And stopped at the Sun's tower.
And the Sun came, the dragon star,
The giant merciless!
Woe unto him who lingers there
By the far heavens' end!
And the Sun came; and with his spell,
He turned them into stones,
The princely hunters, sons of kings!
Far beyond the edge of the world,
And where the sky meets the horizon,
The tower of the sun shines brightly,
Dazzling the minds of mortals.
Once, powerful princes, sons of kings,
Embarked on an incredible hunt,
And reached the Sun's tower.
Then the Sun appeared, the dragon star,
The giant, relentless one!
Woe to anyone who lingers there,
At the edge of the far heavens!
Then the Sun appeared; and with his magic,
He turned them into stone,
The noble hunters, sons of kings!

No azure field, no streak of green,
No shadow, and no breath!
Only a death of light and lightning
Glitters about and gleams!
And in the tower, in and out,
As if by masters set,
A world of statues voiceless stand,
The offsprings of great kings.
And from their deep and smothered eyes,
Something like living glance
Struggles to peep through its stone veil!
It seems the stone-bound princes
Wait for a sail, long lingering,
From the world's shores away.
No blue fields, no patches of green,
No shadows, and no breath!
Just a death of light and flashes of lightning
Sparkle and shimmer!
And in the tower, moving in and out,
As if arranged by masters,
A world of silent statues stands,
The descendants of great kings.
And from their deep, hidden eyes,
Something like a living gaze
Struggles to break through its stone veil!
It feels like the stone-bound princes
Are waiting for a ship, lingering for a long time,
From the shores of the world far away.

And thou, O princess beautiful,
Camest from far away,
A fair Redeemer! The Sun's tower
Gleamed forth as if the light
Of a new Dawn embraced its walls.
Thou knowest where Life's Fountain
Flows, and thou searchest silently,
With steps that slowly move
Towards the fountain tower-guarded where
Life's water flows. And lo,
Taming the watchful dragon's fangs,
Thou drawest from the fountain
Where the sweet water of Life flows on;
And sprinkling them with it,
Thou wakest up the sons of kings!
And on thy homeward trail,
Thou shinest with transcending gleam,
Like a far greater Sun!
And you, O beautiful princess,
Came from far away,
A fair savior! The tower of the Sun
Shone brightly as if the light
Of a new dawn wrapped around its walls.
You know where the Fountain of Life
Flows, and you search quietly,
With steps that move slowly
Toward the tower guarded by the fountain where
Life's water flows. And look,
Taming the watchful dragon's fangs,
You draw from the fountain
Where the sweet water of Life flows;
And sprinkling it on them,
You awaken the sons of kings!
And on your way back,
You shine with an extraordinary glow,
Like a much greater Sun!

A MOURNING SONG

No! Death cannot have taken thee!
In the sweet hour of love,
The Sun-god lifted thee away,
O child of sunlike beauty!
He took thee to his palaces
To fill thee with his love,
A love that lives in light and is
An endless glittering!
Flowers with light-born fragrances
And fruits as sweet as light,
The Sun will pluck for thee; and he
Will bathe thee in a stream
Flooded with light. And clad
In a white robe of light, my child,
Thou wilt come back to me,
Riding on a star-crowned deer!
No! Death can't have taken you!
In that sweet moment of love,
The Sun-god carried you away,
Oh child of radiant beauty!
He took you to his palaces
To fill you with his love,
A love that exists in light and is
An endless sparkle!
Flowers with scents born of light
And fruits as sweet as light,
The Sun will gather for you; and he
Will wash you in a stream
Overflowing with light. And dressed
In a white robe of light, my child,
You will come back to me,
Riding on a star-crowned deer!

PRAYER OF THE FIRST-BORN MEN

Each time the dawn reveals thy face,
Each time the darkness hides thee,
Before the eyes of all the world,
In crimson red thou shinest,
Father and God blood-revelling!
A bath in blood immortalizes
Thine unfathomed beauty!
Blood feeds and veils thee, Father
And God blood-revelling!
To quench thy thirst, we offer thee
Our only children's lives;
And if their blood fills not thy thirst,
We spread for thee a sea
Of all the blood of our own heart!
Every time dawn reveals your face,
Every time darkness conceals you,
In front of the eyes of the entire world,
You shine in crimson red,
Father and God of bloodshed!
A bath in blood makes
Your unimaginable beauty eternal!
Blood nourishes and envelops you, Father
And God of bloodshed!
To satisfy your thirst, we give you
The lives of our only children;
And if their blood doesn’t quench your thirst,
We spread a sea
Of all the blood from our own hearts!

THOUGHT OF THE LAST-BORN MEN

Where temples sounded with hosannas,
Stones lie dumb in crumbling ruins;
And forgetfulness has swept
Dreams and phantoms once called gods.
Even you are gone, O myths,
Golden makers of the thought,
Gone beyond return!
In the empty Infinite,
Blind laws drive in multitudes
Flaming worlds of endless depths.
And yet neither gold-haired Phoebus,
Who is dead, nor yet the sun,
Who now lives a world-abyss,
None, God or law, upon this earth
Could save us or will ever save
Either from the claws of love
Or from the teeth of death!
Where temples once rang with praise,
Stones now lie silent in crumbling ruins;
And forgetfulness has taken away
The dreams and illusions once called gods.
Even you are gone, oh myths,
Golden creators of thoughts,
Gone for good!
In the empty Infinite,
Blind forces drive masses
Into flaming worlds of endless depths.
Yet neither the golden-haired Apollo,
Who is dead, nor the sun,
Who now exists in a world-abyss,
None, God or law, on this earth
Could save us or will ever save
Us from the claws of love
Or from the teeth of death!

MOLOCH

Barbarians defile the land
Where the Greek race was born!
And where the loves flew garlanded,
Night-bats roam to and fro!
And in our night, as a glowworm,
The ancients' memory
Sends forth its greenish counterfeit
Of light! It is a night
That our undying sun cannot
Dispel with its bright beams!
From depths and heights, barbarians
Suck soul and fatherland!
And when with a low moan thrice-deep,
We ask thee, Grecian God,
"Art thou the golden-haired Apollo?"
Grimly thou answerest,
"Moloch, am I!"
Barbarians are ruining the land
Where Greek culture began!
And where love once thrived,
Night creatures roam without purpose!
In our darkest moments, like a glowworm,
The memories of the ancients
Glow with a faint greenish light
Of nostalgia! It’s a night
That our eternal sun cannot
Drive away with its bright rays!
From every direction, barbarians
Siphon the spirit and homeland!
And when we let out a deep, sorrowful moan,
Asking you, Grecian God,
"Are you the golden-haired Apollo?"
You reply with a grim tone,
"I am Moloch!"

ALL THE STARS

When I first looked with wonderment
On thee, O Muse of Light,
The morning star upon thy brow
Shone with bright glittering.
And I said: "More of light I need!"
And as I looked again
On thee, O Muse of Light, the moon
Shone brightly on thy brow.
And "More!" I said and looked again:
And saw the sun agleam!
But still insatiate I am,
And wait to look on thee
When on thy brow, O Muse of Light,
The star-spun sky shall shine!
When I first looked in awe
At you, O Muse of Light,
The morning star on your forehead
Sparkled brilliantly.
And I said, "I need more light!"
Then, as I looked again
At you, O Muse of Light, the moon
Shone bright on your brow.
And "More!" I shouted and looked again:
And saw the sun shining!
But I'm still not satisfied,
And I wait to see you
When on your forehead, O Muse of Light,
The starry sky will shine!

ARROWS

Thou earnest, Phoebus, lower down
From pure Olympus' heights
Towards the land where idle men
And sluggards worthless dwell;
And on thy lyre thou playedst, Fountain
Of flowing harmonies!
The deaf made answer with their sneers!
The blind, with scornful laughter!
And then to rid the world of filth
And purify the air,
Thou threwest away thine angry lyre;
And turning archer, thou,
With fiery arrows smotest all
The flocks of fools away!
You earnest Phoebus, come down
From the heights of pure Olympus
To the land of lazy people
And useless idlers;
And on your lyre you played, Fountain
Of flowing melodies!
The deaf responded with mockery!
The blind, with scornful laughter!
And then to rid the world of filth
And clear the air,
You tossed away your angry lyre;
And becoming an archer, you,
With fiery arrows struck down
The herds of fools!

VERSES OF A FAMILIAR TUNE
1900

THE BEGINNING

A wedding guest, I travel far abroad!
The bride, thrice beautiful; the groom, a wizard;
And I ride swiftly to the wedding feast.
The land is far, and I must travel on;
An endless path before me leads away,
But till I reach the end, I check the ardor
Of my swift-footed stallion silver-shod,
And wisely shorten my way's weary length
With sounds that, like sweet longings, wake in me,
Old sounds familiar, low-whispering
Of women's beauties and of home-born shadows.
Then flowers pour their fragrances for me;
And blossoms with no scent have their own speech,
The speech of voiceless eyes that open wide;
Unconsciously I speak my words in rimes
That with uncommon measure echo forth
The flames that burn within the heart, the kisses
That the waves squander on the sandy beach,
And the sweet birds that sing on children's lips!
A wedding guest, I journey far away!
The bride is beautiful; the groom is charming;
And I ride swiftly to the wedding celebration.
The land is far, and I have to keep moving;
An endless road stretches out ahead of me,
But until I get there, I hold back my excitement
For my quick horse, shod with silver,
And wisely make the long journey shorter
With sounds that, like sweet longings, rise within me,
Old familiar sounds, gently whispering
About the beauty of women and the comforts of home.
Then flowers shower me with their scents;
And scentless blooms have their own language,
The language of silent eyes that widen;
Unknowingly, I find myself speaking in rhymes
That resonate with an unusual rhythm
The flames that burn in the heart, the kisses
That the waves scatter on the sandy shore,
And the sweet songs that dance on children's lips!

THE PARALYTIC ON THE RIVER'S BANK

Upon the graceless river bank that spread
Barren and desert, all things drooped in sickness;
And I, with palsy stricken, lay in pains!
Vainly my hands shook feather-like with fever;
Methought my feet were nailed upon the ground;
The river, wide and wild; and far beyond,
As far as eyes could see, the other bank
Revelled in lusty growth and endless mirth
With leafy slopes and forests glistening!
Meadows unreaped and glades untrod were there,
And floods of green and tempests of new blossoms!
About the tree-tops glittered crowns of light;
Shadows thrice-deep hid mysteries divine;
And all descended blindly to the bank
Where the wild river's anger held them back,
Seeking, it seemed, a ford to come across
To the dark bank of wilderness and torture!
On the lifeless riverbank that stretched
Barren and desolate, everything seemed sick;
And I, struck with paralysis, lay in agony!
My hands shook weakly like feathers with fever;
I felt like my feet were nailed to the ground;
The river, wide and wild; and far beyond,
As far as I could see, the other bank
Was full of vibrant growth and endless joy
With leafy slopes and sparkling forests!
There were untouched meadows and undisturbed glades,
And waves of green and bursts of new blossoms!
Around the treetops sparkled crowns of light;
Deep shadows hid divine mysteries;
And everything flowed blindly towards the bank
Where the wild river's fury held them back,
As if seeking a way to cross over
To the dark bank of wilderness and suffering!

And toward me all seemed to stretch their hands,
Sending me shameless kisses as I lay
Parched by the burning wind and worn with fever.
Nearby a sun-dried reed poured forth its sighs;
And farther, a small laurel stirred its leaves:
The double treasure of my wilderness.
And everyone seemed to reach out to me,
Sending bold kisses as I lay
Dry from the scorching wind and exhausted with fever.
Nearby, a sun-dried reed let out its sighs;
And further away, a small laurel rustled its leaves:
The double treasure of my solitude.

I wished to cut a flute from the dry reed
And wished a crown of laurel; but I lay
Nailed down immovable as if the rod
Of an enchantress evil-born had touched me;
And within me, with wings of impotence,
My wounded mind fluttered on hopelessly!
I wanted to cut a flute from the dry reed
And hoped for a crown of laurel; but I lay
Stuck in place as if an evil enchantress's rod
Had touched me;
And inside me, with wings of helplessness,
My wounded mind fluttered hopelessly!

And then thou camest girt with working garb;
With girdle flower-spun, with apron full
Of fruits, didst thou bend over me. The spell
Thou didst dispel and gavest me to eat
And cleansedst me with myrrh; and suddenly,
A soul divine and merciful came down
On the bank merciless; and in thine arms
Lifting me gently, thou didst go forth
Amidst a moaning as of humming bees.
Thou stoodst on the threshold of the peasant hut,
The hut that was earth-built and filled with grass
As if the art of a small bird had wrought it.
And then you came dressed in work clothes;
With a flower-embroidered belt and an apron full
Of fruits, you leaned over me. You broke the spell
And gave me something to eat
And cleansed me with myrrh; and suddenly,
A divine and merciful soul came down
To the unforgiving bank; and in your arms
Gently lifting me, you moved on
Amid the hum of bees.
You stood at the door of the peasant hut,
The hut made of earth and filled with grass,
As if a small bird had crafted it.

Thou didst lay me upon a bed at dusk
That I might rest; and mingled with sweet care
And innocence, thou didst lean by my side
With body ripe and beautiful. Wert thou
A lover, mother, sister, or a woman?
Thou didst lay on my brow thy hand to lull me;
And in thy thoughtful face, I saw the gleam
Of kindly Nausica and good Rebecca.
You laid me down on a bed at dusk
So I could rest; and mixed with sweet care
And innocence, you leaned by my side
With a ripe and beautiful body. Were you
A lover, mother, sister, or just a woman?
You placed your hand on my brow to calm me;
And in your thoughtful face, I saw the shine
Of kind Nausica and good Rebecca.

I slept and woke; even my sorrow's ogress
Had turned into a fairy sweetly sad!
And in my hands I found both, laurel bough
And reed! I drank the fragrant morning breath
Of pines; and taking up the laurel boughs,
I wove with master hand the whole day long
All kinds of laurel crowns for thee; and then
I poured into the unaccustomed air
Of thy small hut a flute's soft-flown complaint.
I slept and woke up; even the monster of my sorrow
Had turned into a gently sad fairy!
And in my hands, I found both a laurel branch
And a reed! I breathed in the fragrant morning air
Of pines; and while I gathered the laurel branches,
I spent the whole day skillfully making
All kinds of laurel crowns for you; and then
I filled the unfamiliar air
Of your little hut with the soft, flowing music of my flute.

But from my bed, I lifted up mine eyes
To the window's light and saw again, alas,
The desert river bank, and, far beyond,
The world that squandered diamonds and pearls
And revelled in its joy of green dew-clad.
Again they nodded secretly at me,
Stretching their hands and feigning love!
And even near thee, palsy struck I was,
The paralytic on the river bank!
But from my bed, I lifted my eyes
To the light coming through the window and saw again, oh no,
The desert riverbank, and, far beyond,
The world that wasted diamonds and pearls
And reveled in its joy of green, dewy grass.
Once more they nodded secretly at me,
Reaching out their hands and pretending to love!
And even close to you, I was struck by paralysis,
The disabled one on the riverbank!

THE SIMPLE SONG

Thou camest far away from lands beyond!
Thou wert not a gold sunlit cloud at sunset
But mother of a honeyed tenderness
That until then lay hidden in my mind's
Tenderest shrine; the golden seal of a
Young maiden's joy stamped with its touch!
The evening star thou wert not; but thou wert
The sister of a simple love that lay
Hidden till then in my heart's inner depths.
You came from faraway places!
You weren't a golden cloud at sunset
But the source of a sweet tenderness
That had been hidden in the deepest
Part of my mind; the golden mark of a
Young girl’s joy sealed with your touch!
You weren’t the evening star; but you were
The sister of a simple love that had been
Concealed until then in the depths of my heart.

Before me thou didst not unfold the spaces
Of the blue skies; not didst thou lift mine eyes
Towards the rough-hewn peak; nor didst thou open
To me the way for distant palaces;
Nor didst thou lead me by a secret path
Untrod. But lifting with one hand the basket,
Gently thou heldest with the other mine;
And leading me to sit by ferns dew-clad
And deep green grass and snow-white flowers, thou
Badest me stoop and gather; and I stooped
And gathered all my hands could reach: wall-flowers,
Hyacinths, violets, and daffodils;
And found beside them a May day anew.
Before you, I couldn't see the vastness
Of the blue skies; you didn’t lift my gaze
To the rugged peak; nor did you show
Me the way to distant palaces;
You didn't lead me along a secret path
That was untrodden. But with one hand holding the basket,
You gently took my hand with the other;
And leading me to sit by dew-covered ferns
And lush green grass and pure white flowers, you
Asked me to bend down and pick them; and I bent
Down and gathered everything my hands could reach: wallflowers,
Hyacinths, violets, and daffodils;
And beside them, I found a brand new May day.

Over their petals newly reaped and fresh
That made the basket seem a cruel spring,
I bent and wept for their deaths swift and fair;
And lo, thou didst face them, a Life agleam!
Over their petals, freshly picked and vibrant
That made the basket feel like a harsh spring,
I bent down and wept for their quick and beautiful deaths;
And look, you faced them, a Life shining bright!

THREE KISSES

A Dream flew down and stood before mine eyes—
Who knows from what unknown deep-hidden nest?
It took the face of my own secret love
And blew me with its hands three airy kisses:
A dream came down and stood right in front of me—
Who knows where it came from, some mysterious place?
It took on the face of my own secret love
And blew three light kisses at me with its hands:

The first air-kiss spread in my breast the din
Of bitter and sweet life in waves of air;
And the world's music sounded manifold,
A tempest's roar and a sweet breath's caress.
The first air-kiss filled my heart with the sounds
Of life's bitterness and sweetness, coming in waves;
And the music of the world resonated in many ways,
From a storm's roar to a gentle breeze.

The second air-kiss whispered low to me
All whisperings that Silence stoops to sing
Over bare wilderness and tombs and ruins,
Songs that no soul nor even wind can hear.
The second air-kiss softly communicated to me
All the whispers that Silence bends to sing
Across empty landscapes, graves, and ruins,
Songs that no soul, nor even the wind, can hear.

The third air-kiss would bring to me, it seemed,
Secrets from somewhere heard by none before.
Perhaps, by some bright star, two spirits white
Embraced each other as they passed in thought.
The third air-kiss seemed to offer me
Secrets from a place that no one had ever heard.
Perhaps, under some bright star, two pure souls
Held each other close as they connected in thought.

ISMENE

To N.G. Polites, her father.

To N.G. Polites, Dad.

Where is the little girl and beautiful
Who drew the milk of a full life and precious?
She filled her home with fragrance, and away
She sailed to anchor in another land.
Where is the little girl, so lovely
Who drew from the rich and precious milk of life?
She filled her home with sweet aromas, and then
Set off to find a new place to call home.

She filled her home with fragrance, and on wings
Swiftly she fled and passed away. Who knows
Why she has left the flesh? Perhaps, she went
Among the mystic joys of things unseen
And things intangible to be herself
Something new, something beyond compare or word.
She filled her home with fragrance, and quickly flew away. Who knows why she left her body? Maybe she joined the mysterious joys of the unseen and intangibles to become herself—something new, something beyond comparison or description.

And yet her house is wrapped in spider webs
And longs for her. To her warm nest, will she
Return? Perhaps, each time you feel, O home,
Within your bosom something sweet and tender
That cannot be explained, it may be she;
Who knows? Then speak to her and say: "Do you,
Too, long for me, O soul without return?"
And still her house is covered in spider webs
And longs for her. Will she return to her warm nest?
Maybe, whenever you feel, O home,
Something sweet and tender in your heart
That can't be explained, it could be her;
Who knows? So tell her: "Do you,
Also miss me, O soul that doesn't return?"

THOUGHTS OF EARLY DAWN

Who are you that awake me in the morning?
Not the reveille that sweetens with its sounds
The soldier's hardy life. Nor can you be
The chapel bell that slowly rings to prayer.
Who are you that wakes me in the morning?
Not the bugle that brightens a soldier's tough life
With its calls. Nor can you be
The chapel bell that slowly rings for prayer.

* * * * *
* * * * *

Your steps fall heavy on the road. You bring
Thought, light, and sound, my sacred Trinity.
What if you rouse the slave who goes to work?
What if you call the prodigal to sleep?
Your footsteps are loud on the road. You bring
Thought, light, and sound, my sacred Trinity.
What if you wake the worker heading to their job?
What if you wake the lost one trying to rest?

* * * * *
* * * * *

Not many were the flowers; and few, the lilies;
And I did long to reap the lily-treasure.
I eyed the lilies all, and walked into
The garden rich to clasp them in mine arms.
Not many were the flowers; and few were the lilies;
And I really wanted to gather the lily treasure.
I looked at all the lilies and walked into
The rich garden to hold them in my arms.

* * * * *
* * * * *

And in the garden, all the roses smiled;
Under their veils, the violets bowed down.
I passed them by. The pansies looked erect
And scentless, wrapped in thought: by them, I stopped.
And in the garden, all the roses smiled;
Under their petals, the violets bowed down.
I walked past them. The pansies stood tall
And scentless, lost in thought: I paused by them.

Sweet child, upon thy tomb, a rosebud blossomed;
The hand would reach at it, but it cannot.
And on its path the wind would blow on it;
But ere he light, it dies into a kiss.
Sweet child, a rosebud bloomed on your grave;
The hand would reach for it, but can't.
And the wind would blow on its path;
But before it could, it fades into a kiss.

* * * * *
* * * * *

Like church lights shine the blossoms in the light;
And butterflies are drunk with airy fragrance;
Yet neither for fragrance nor for light, I come
Into the quiet garden as before.
Like church lights, the blossoms shine in the light;
And butterflies are intoxicated by the airy scent;
Yet I don’t come
Into the quiet garden for the scent or the light, as I did before.

* * * * *
* * * * *

I come to see the children beautiful,
Running and playing, full of beaming smiles,
Children that make of grassy beds a heaven
And rise like miracles among the flowers.
I see the children, beautiful,
Running and playing, full of bright smiles,
Kids who turn grassy fields into a paradise
And rise like miracles among the flowers.

* * * * *
* * * * *

The brows of righteous men pass slow before me,
Clouds calm and wide, full of refreshing rain;
And from the lightless depths of hell, methinks
I hear breast-beatings and dark blasphemies.
And suddenly, I mingle speech with rime,
The rime that above human things and woes,
Like the Platonic Diotima, rises
A prophetess upon a path sublime
Towards worlds of thought and earth-transcending loves.
The brows of righteous men pass slowly before me,
Clouds calm and wide, full of refreshing rain;
And from the dark depths of hell, I think
I hear the sounds of rage and dark curses.
And suddenly, I blend speech with rhyme,
The rhyme that rises above human troubles and pain,
Like the Platonic Diotima, ascending
A prophetess on a sublime path
Towards worlds of thought and loves beyond this earth.

* * * * *
* * * * *

Whatever be thy substance, O bright gleam,
Iron or stone, silver or wind, air-cloud
Or dream, my longing is the same for thee!
Within me thought and hands and art and science
Struggle to build together the same temple.
Maternal Rhea treasures in her breast
All marbles: purple, green, and white. I searched
And found them in your care, Taygetus
Snake-like, and Cyclads fair, and Attica.
And now the columns stand a forest speechless
And motionless; and among them, the rhythms
And thoughts move in slow measures constantly.
And in their depths, light-written images
Show Love that leads and Soul that follows him.
No matter what you are, O bright light,
Iron or stone, silver or wind, air-cloud
Or dream, my desire for you is the same!
Inside me, thoughts, hands, art, and science
Struggle to create the same temple together.
Mother Rhea holds in her heart
All the marbles: purple, green, and white. I searched
And found them in your care, Taygetus,
Snake-like, and the beautiful Cyclades, and Attica.
And now the columns stand like a silent, still forest;
And among them, rhythms
And thoughts move in slow, constant measures.
And within their depths, light-written images
Reveal Love that leads and Soul that follows him.

* * * * *
* * * * *

The axe and hammer of the priest black-robed
Struck down the holy idols of the temples;
And yet the soul of the ruins perished not!
It climbed the heaven's spaces as a star
Until new sculptured lilies came to life
In master minds, the gardens of the wise.
Thus axe and hammer of the priest black-robed
Broke not the holy idols of the temples!
The axe and hammer of the priest in black robes
Took down the holy idols from the temples;
Yet the spirit of the ruins didn’t die!
It rose through the skies like a star
Until new sculpted lilies sprang to life
In the minds of great thinkers, the gardens of the wise.
So the axe and hammer of the priest in black robes
Didn’t break the holy idols of the temples!

* * * * *
* * * * *

Sweet child, upon thy tomb a rosebud blossomed;
Is it thy joy or grief? Thy heart or thou?
If mind, remember me! If mouth, speak forth!
"I am the movement of the motionless,
The lightning flushing from the source of nothing!"
Sweet child, a rosebud bloomed on your grave;
Is it your joy or sadness? Your heart or you?
If it’s your mind, remember me! If it’s your mouth, speak up!
"I am the motion of the still,
The lightning flashing from the source of nothing!"

* * * * *
* * * * *

Thy cup is foaming with its black strong wine;
Bring to our fountain thy white-foaming cup,
And brighten into red thy black strong wine
With the fresh water of our fountain here.
Your cup is overflowing with dark, strong wine;
Bring your frothy cup to our fountain,
And turn your dark strong wine into bright red
With the fresh water from our fountain here.

* * * * *
* * * * *

I have a thought of dew; a heart of flame!
The wine vat boils; the spring flows fresh and cool;
And I did mingle in my chiseled cup
The black strong wine with the sweet water dew.
I have a thought of dew; a heart of fire!
The wine vat bubbles; the spring runs fresh and cool;
And I mixed in my carved cup
The bold dark wine with the sweet water dew.

A hundred years! A hundred years are gone
Of Grecian mornings and of Grecian sunsets!
Make them a coffin wide, O carpenter,
And bury them, the hapless dead, in silence!
A hundred years! A hundred years have passed
Of Greek mornings and Greek sunsets!
Make it a wide coffin, oh carpenter,
And bury them, the unfortunate dead, in silence!

* * * * *
* * * * *

A hundred dragons watch a queen black-robed,
A widowed orphan queen in a lone castle;
And they dig up the scattered fragments of
An ancient and exhaustless treasure, once
Her own, and bring them as their gifts to her!
"I need no fragments! May the hour be cursed
And you, dragons, who hold me prisoner!
I dream of her, the living perfect land
Where I was queen! While here, I am a slave!"
A hundred dragons watch a queen in a black robe,
A widowed orphan queen in a lonely castle;
And they dig up the scattered pieces of
An ancient and endless treasure, once
Hers, and bring them as gifts to her!
"I don’t want any pieces! May the hour be cursed
And you, dragons, who keep me trapped!
I dream of her, the living perfect land
Where I was queen! Here, I am a slave!"

* * * * *
* * * * *

Loud-crying birds that fly toward the heights,
White swans, and swans that cut so tenderly
The silent waters of the lake in thoughts
Of silent sorrow, tameless birds and weary!
O swans that dream the conquest of the sun,
And swans that wait the coming of deep sleep!
Loud, crying birds that soar to the skies,
White swans, and swans that gently glide
Over the still waters of the lake, lost
In silent sorrow, untamed birds, so tired!
Oh, swans that dream of conquering the sun,
And swans that await the arrival of deep sleep!

Within me lies a far and secret kingdom
Where I can see lake-swans and winds like you!
Within me is a distant and hidden kingdom
Where I can see swans on the lake and winds like you!

* * * * *
* * * * *

My banished life has found a home near thee;
And by thy grace, I am thy priest, O Phoebus!
And taking from thy bright divinity,
I made the sun-born maiden to thy glory!
I lifted to thine image my loud praises,
And lo, bells hoarse and tuneless answered them.
Yet what of it? Thine endless praise I am,
And paeans follow on my dithyrambs!
My exiled life has found a place near you;
And by your grace, I am your priest, O Phoebus!
And taking from your bright divinity,
I created the sun-born maiden to honor you!
I raised my loud praises to your image,
And lo, harsh and tuneless bells answered them.
But what of it? I am your endless praise,
And songs of joy follow my ecstatic hymns!

TO A MAIDEN WHO DIED

O little life, quenched by the blow of death
Amidst the tender dreams of rosy dawn,
I cannot lift thee into deathlessness
Upon the chiseled glitter of the marble!
Oh little life, extinguished by death's blow
In the gentle dreams of a rosy dawn,
I can’t raise you to immortality
On the polished surface of the marble!

I am a humble bard; and thou, a music
Silenced, whose strains my memory cannot
Recall. Yet with a deeper bond my soul
Thou bindest, O breath unpainted and unsung.
I’m just a simple bard, and you, a song
Silenced, whose melodies my memory can’t
Recall. Yet with a deeper bond, my soul
You connect, oh unspoken and unsung breath.

Like a far dawn, thou smiledst in my mind,
A dawn most sweet and shy and fleeting. Then
One day, over my child's pure head thou bentest
With face abloom with smiles and fond caresses.
Like a distant dawn, you smiled in my thoughts,
A dawn so sweet, shy, and fleeting. Then
One day, you leaned over my child's innocent head
With a face full of smiles and loving touches.

And something amber-like remained in me
From thee, though thou didst pass; and in the evening
Which in me rises slowly, the dream fairy
Of the azure tales looks with thy face on me.
And something like amber lingers with me
From you, even though you’re gone; and in the evening
That slowly rises within me, the dream fairy
Of the blue stories looks at me with your face.

TO THE SINNER

Sinner, thy mother gave thee not the milk
That makes the cheek a rose, the man a castle!
Each nursing was a sin; each drop, a sickness!
Within thee, ancient lives revive thrice-wretched.
Sinner, your mother didn’t give you the kind of milk
That makes cheeks rosy and men strong!
Every feeding was a sin; every drop was poison!
Inside you, ancient lives are resurrected, cursed three times.

Vices of ancestors unknown and instincts
Of beastly fathers, ever travelling,
Before they rose to light, thus to become
Like smiles and fields of azure blue, came down
To dwell in thee, a people of tormentors!
The vices of unknown ancestors and instincts
Of wild fathers, always wandering,
Before they came to light, becoming
Like smiles and fields of bright blue, descended
To live in you, a people of tormentors!

And one day, sinner, thine own mother gave
To thee the wonder-working holy image
To carry it to the sacred festival
Of the illumined church with open gates
Calling upon its throngs of worshippers.
And one day, sinner, your own mother gave
You the miraculous holy image
To take to the sacred festival
Of the brightly lit church with open gates
Calling out to its crowds of worshippers.

And on thy way, the luring harlot watched
And stripped thee of thy mind; and as thy hands
Struggled to clasp her, down the image fell,
The sacred image, in the ditch's filth!
And on your way, the tempting seductress watched
And took away your sanity; and as your hands
Tried to grab her, the image fell,
The sacred image, into the filth of the ditch!

And forthwith even there, the plague began
To visit thee! And crumbling down, thou didst
Begin to groan and tremble nearer death
Than the dead corpse on which the ravens feed!
And Satan crouching upon thee rejoices!
And right then and there, the plague began
To strike you! And as you crumbled, you started
To groan and shake, closer to death
Than the dead body that the ravens feed on!
And Satan crouching over you celebrates!

And seeing it, thou strugglest painfully,
Stretchest thy hands towards the ditch's filth,
And darest a prayer to the saint defiled,
Though still enflamed by thirst for the vile kiss!
And seeing this, you struggle painfully,
Stretch your hands towards the filth of the ditch,
And dare to pray to the defiled saint,
Even while still burning with thirst for the vile kiss!

A TALK WITH THE FLOWERS

Upon my passing, slow or swift, by you
I lingered not, nor stooped to pluck you, flowers!
I saw you as a vision skyward roaming,
And I adored you just as thought and sky!
My hand reached not to touch you sinfully,
My flowers! For what is most beautiful
Is also most remote. You were for me
The music that the wind brings on its wings
In perfect strains directly to the heart.
I wished your dazzling could remain as that
Of castles barred and inaccessible.
From far thy fragrance came to me, O jasmine;
And thy gleam, lily, like the eyes' light-kisses!
As I passed by you, whether quickly or slowly,
I didn’t linger or stop to pick you, flowers!
I saw you as a vision soaring skyward,
And I loved you just like thought and the sky!
My hand didn’t reach out to touch you wrongly,
My flowers! Because what is most beautiful
Is also the most elusive. To me, you were
The music that the wind carries on its wings
In perfect melodies straight to the heart.
I wished your brightness could remain like that
Of castles shut away and unreachable.
From afar, your fragrance reached me, O jasmine;
And your shine, lily, like the gentle kisses of light!

But since my darling child lay down to sleep
The bitter sleep that knows no wakening,
I am the cruel reaper always bending
Above you, gathering you one by one,
And ever binding you in royal garlands,
And ever weaving you into rich robes
For him! I wish to play new plays with him,
And spread you over him as mine embrace!
I wish to raise him as a flower garden
Breathing into his grave the flower soul
Of an immortal April. Oh, I wish ...
Weak though I am, would all earth's verdancy
Were a long dream and kiss for my beloved!
Would that whatever is beyond man's touch,
Air-born, transcending earth, or fleeting, all
That has a sunbeam as its heart, a breeze as body,
Fair vision, thought, or heaven—would that I
Could close them into forms and scatter them
Upon his flower-clad grave with you, sweet flowers!
But since my beloved child has gone to sleep
The eternal sleep that never wakes,
I am the relentless reaper, always hovering
Over you, taking you one by one,
And continuously binding you in royal wreaths,
And constantly weaving you into fine robes
For him! I want to create new stories with him,
And wrap you around him like my embrace!
I want to raise him like a flower garden
Breathing into his grave the essence of blooms
From an everlasting April. Oh, I wish ...
Even though I’m weak, I wish all of earth's greenery
Could become a long dream and a kiss for my beloved!
I wish that whatever lies beyond human reach,
Airborne, beyond the earth, or fleeting, all
That has sunlight at its heart, a breeze as its body,
Beautiful visions, thoughts, or heaven—if only I
Could shape them into forms and scatter them
On his flower-covered grave with you, sweet flowers!

In my paternal love, pure white, the flames
Of passion burn; and then, the yellow languor
Of a sick man! Thus did I love him, flowers!
His father though they called me, I was his lover!
In my fatherly love, pure as snow, the flames
Of passion burn; and then, the dull fatigue
Of an ill man! That’s how I loved him, flowers!
They called me his father, but I was his lover!

O flowers, did you know it? Was your life,
So pure and little, ever touched by such
A woe? Does not a quenchless longing stir you
As you grow on the selfsame flower bough?
O flowers, did you know this? Was your life,
So pure and small, ever affected by such
Sorrow? Doesn’t an unending longing move you
As you grow on the same flower branch?

The body of my child, sent up from depths
Unfathomed of a secret Fate unhoped,
Was an epiphany of the fair bride,
The bride undreamable, intangible
Of a god's dream! Was he of mine own blood?
I never thought whether he was to live,
Grow, or advance in thought and deed; I was
Drunk with his luring wine, his eyes, his face,
His gait! The breath of blest Makaria
Had blown on him! The stranger's song revolved
Before my mind: "Thou little line so fine,
Written with roses, line that wert his mouth,
How dost thou give birth to that mighty trembling?"[22]
The body of my child, lifted from depths
Unknown by a secret Fate I never expected,
Was a vision of the beautiful bride,
The bride unimaginable, intangible
Of a god's dream! Was he really my own blood?
I never considered whether he would live,
Grow, or develop in thought and action; I was
Intoxicated by his alluring charm, his eyes, his face,
His walk! The breath of blessed Makaria
Had touched him! The stranger's song echoed
In my mind: "You little line so delicate,
Written with roses, the line that was his mouth,
How do you give birth to that mighty trembling?"__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__

How often when he turned away his lips
So beautiful in careless weariness
From mine embrace, I felt the torturings
Of a disease and drank the bitter draughts
Of jealousy! How often, when he lay
Reclining on mine arms and breathing gently,
I thought I held the graspless image of
Beauty light-born, and said: "What is there more
For me to hope?" O flowers, did you know it?
Can you, too, mingle your little hidden hearts
Fed with sweet honey, the pure frankincense
Of a thrice-blue and earth-transcending worship,
With love's uneasy little tremblings?
How often when he turned his lips away
So beautiful in careless tiredness
From my embrace, I felt the pain
Of a sickness and drank the bitter cup
Of jealousy! How often, when he lay
Reclined in my arms and breathing softly,
I thought I held an elusive image of
Beauty born of light, and said: "What else is there
For me to hope for?" O flowers, did you know?
Can you, too, share your little hidden hearts
Nourished with sweet honey, the pure incense
Of profound and otherworldly worship,
With love's uneasy little tremors?

Of jealousy! How often, when he lay
Reclining on mine arms and breathing gently,
I thought I held the graspless image of
Beauty light-born, and said: "What is there more
For me to hope?" O flowers, did you know it?
Can you, too, mingle your little hidden hearts
Fed with sweet honey, the pure frankincense
Of a thrice-blue and earth-transcending worship,
With love's uneasy little tremblings?
Of jealousy! How often, when he lay
Relaxing in my arms and breathing softly,
I thought I held the fleeting image of
Beauty born from light, and said: "What more
Can I hope for?" O flowers, did you know?
Can you, too, blend your tiny hidden hearts
Nourished with sweet honey, the pure frankincense
Of a threefold blue and earth-transcending worship,
With love's uneasy little shivers?

Oh,
The bitterest and saddest blows, the blows
That know no healing on this earth of ours,
Come from our dearest! Thus he fled and left me
A bitterness beyond all sorrow's pangs,
O little flowers, flowers of dark death!
Oh,
The harshest and saddest wounds, the wounds
That never heal in our world,
Come from those we love the most! So he ran away and left me
A pain deeper than any sorrow,
O little flowers, flowers of dark death!

TO MY WIFE

Here bloomed our home; the young plant verdant blossomed
In the cool shade of the fresh green grape-vine;
And here the mystic moon, entwined in green,
Descended like a first-seen ghost on us.
Here our home grew; the young plant thrived
In the cool shade of the fresh green grapevine;
And here the mystical moon, cloaked in green,
Descended upon us like a ghost we'd just seen.

Here the two fountains of desire refreshed
Our years: the one, before our eyes; the others,
In dreams. The fair Muse silenced here care's crickets
And stirred the sacred frenzy of the lyre.
Here, the two fountains of desire refreshed
Our lives: one, right in front of us; the other,
In our dreams. The lovely Muse eased our worries
And sparked the sacred frenzy of the lyre.

Here we enjoyed our first-born's flutterings;
And here the little gleaming face and round,
Our second fruit, maddened us with pure joy!
As the unhoped return of a longed friend,
Here we received one day into our bosom
The transitory child beyond compare,
The third one, who transformed the worldly air
About us into flowing wine for gods,
An offering unto the gleaming light
Of high Olympus, dwelling of the blessed!
Here we felt our first baby's little movements;
And here the tiny shining face, round and sweet,
Of our second child filled us with pure joy!
Like the unexpected return of a dear friend,
Here we welcomed one day into our hearts
The incomparable fleeting child,
The third one, who transformed the atmosphere
Around us into flowing wine for the gods,
A gift to the bright light
Of high Olympus, home of the blessed!

Here was thy youth, even when care oppressed thee,
A fair Venetian painting, the blithe work
Of a light-beaming Titian, that revealed
Pure shining joy in thy lithe body's form.
Here was your youth, even when worry weighed you down,
A beautiful Venetian painting, the cheerful work
Of a radiant Titian, capturing
Pure shining joy in your graceful form.

Here bloomed our home; the young plant verdant blossomed,
Hidden in the cool shade of the green vine.
Now, nothing remains. Only the mystic moon
Weeps in a palace voiceless, wide, and gloomy!
Here our home blossomed; the young plant thrived,
Hiding in the cool shade of the green vine.
Now, nothing remains. Only the mysterious moon
Weeps in a silent, vast, and gloomy palace!

The life that died here wished for April as
Grave-digger, and a flower-bed as grave.
Oh, who had cursed it? Nothing but a tomb
Was found for it! A tomb unfit and graceless!
The life that ended here longed for April as
Grave-digger, and a flower bed as a grave.
Oh, who had cursed it? Nothing but a tomb
Was found for it! An unworthy and ugly tomb!

THE ANSWER

Take me and hear me, Hamadryads fair,
And Aegipans, Wood-Nymphs, and shepherd gods!
The bridal beds are set! The forest glades,
In flurry! The Flower Festival has come!
The bacchic revelry bursts forth in glow
And frenzy! Where is nature and where is
Its end? I know not whether I am myself;
Great Pan, it seems, dwells in my bosom here.
Come with me and hear me, beautiful Hamadryads,
And Aegipans, Wood-Nymphs, and shepherd gods!
The wedding beds are prepared! The forest clearings,
Full of excitement! The Flower Festival has arrived!
The wild celebration bursts forth in brightness
And chaos! Where is nature and where does
It stop? I’m not sure if I still know who I am;
Great Pan appears to live in my heart here.

O wonder! I do live the holy life
And wild of purest nature's elements!
O God of the golden crown, the three fair Graces
And the Nine Sisters of the Song gave me
The gift of tranquil visions beautiful!
I filled me with the foam-begotten beauty
Of all! I hear the nightingales' sweet song
In answer to the song of Sophocles!
The woes of Aeschylus resound prophetic,
Ocean-born! Face to face with me, as swift
As glance, green-clad Atlantides rise forth
From the abyss and sink in it again.
Wow! I truly live a sacred life
And am wild with the purest elements of nature!
Oh God of the golden crown, the three lovely Graces
And the Nine Muses of Song have given me
The gift of beautiful, peaceful visions!
I’m filled with the beauty born from the foam
Of everything! I hear the sweet song of nightingales
In response to Sophocles' tune!
The sorrows of Aeschylus echo like prophecies,
Born from the ocean! Facing me, as quick
As a glance, the green-clad Atlantides rise up
From the depths and sink back down.

Phoenicians battling with the sea brought me
From far away; I am the reveller
World-wandering! Arts, talks, and images
Are bristling in the air! Take me, O Nymphs
Into your bosom! Satyrs, hear my words!
Phoenicians struggling against the sea brought me
From far away; I am the reveler
Wandering the earth! Arts, conversations, and images
Are buzzing all around! Take me, O Nymphs
Into your embrace! Satyrs, listen to me!

Yet Satyrs, Centaurs, Hamadryad Nymphs,
And golden-spoken Hellades at once
Made answer to my pleading with one voice
From cities, mountains, forests, cliffs, and plains:
Yet Satyrs, Centaurs, Hamadryad Nymphs,
And the golden-tongued Hellades all answered
My plea in unison
From cities, mountains, forests, cliffs, and plains:

"Gods' wine is not for thee, O reveller!"
"The gods' wine is not for you, O reveler!”

And the lithe Tanagraean maiden spoke
With awe-inspiring prophetess Cassandra,
Ivy-crowned Maenads, Gods Olympian,
And the song-nourished Hellades; they spoke
From the far cave of fair Calypso to
The wisdom-haunted Alexandria:
And the graceful girl from Tanagra spoke
With the awe-inspiring prophetess Cassandra,
Ivy-crowned Maenads, Olympian Gods,
And the song-inspired Greeks; they spoke
From the distant cave of beautiful Calypso to
The wisdom-filled Alexandria:

"Silence! Pale monk and idle chatterer!
Silence! Turn back to thy lone cloister cell."
"Be quiet! You pale monk and idle talker!
Be quiet! Go back to your lonely cell."

And the Pindaric heroes laugh in scorn
With the white goddesses of marble wrought
By Scopas' hand; laugh, and their laughter-peals
Are echoed loud and deep from far away!
And the Pindaric heroes laugh in scorn
With the white goddesses of marble crafted
By Scopas' hand; they laugh, and their laughter
Is echoed loudly and deeply from afar!

THOUGHT

More than the godlike gleams of sculptured stone,
More than the golden rhythms the poet weaves,
Who knows if a good act unknown, some wound's
Balsam, shines not with brighter lasting beams?
More than the godlike glimmers of carved stone,
More than the golden rhythms crafted by poets,
Who knows if an unseen good deed or some wound's
Healing touch doesn't shine with brighter, lasting rays?

Who knows if for some god's unfailing ear,
The dogged sin and filthy vice are not
A thrice-wise and tempestuous harmony
Of melodies sung by Virtue's lips serene?
Who knows if, for some god's perfect hearing,
Stubborn sin and filthy vice aren't
A wise and chaotic harmony
Of melodies sung by Virtue's calm voice?

Bright shine the temples of Fair Art; bright shine
The rainbows heavenly of Thought; and bright,
The chariots of warriors triumphant!
Yet in the temple of the Universe,
Can they be costlier than the mute Thought
And Glory of the flower, at whose birth
The dawn rejoices and whose early death
The saddened evening silently laments?
The temples of Beautiful Art shine brightly; the heavenly
Rainbows of Thought shine brilliantly; and brightly,
The chariots of victorious warriors!
Yet in the temple of the Universe,
Can they be more precious than the quiet Thought
And the Glory of the flower, at whose birth
The dawn rejoices and whose early death
The mournful evening quietly mourns?

The thoughtful sage high-rising smites the gates
Of the Infinite and questions every Sphinx;
Yet who knows if the soldier with no will,
Obeying blindly, is not nearer Truth?
The wise sage climbs high and knocks on the gates
Of the Infinite, questioning every Sphinx;
But who knows if the soldier lacking will,
Following orders without thinking, is not closer to Truth?

O struggle vast! Who knows what power measures
The measureless and creates the great?
Is it the matchless thought of the endowed,
Or the dim soul of multitudes that bursts,
Thoughtless of reason, into life? Who knows?
O vast struggle! Who knows what power decides
The immeasurable and brings forth the great?
Is it the unmatched thought of the gifted,
Or the vague spirit of countless people that breaks,
Unaware of reason, into existence? Who knows?

The holy man lifts up his hand to bless
With readiness; yet who needs more such blessing?
Is it the free-born bird that makes its nest
Wherever its strong wings would waft it, or
The flowery plant bound by a bit of earth?
The holy man raises his hand to bless
With eagerness; but who really needs more blessings?
Is it the free bird that builds its nest
Wherever its strong wings can take it, or
The blossoming plant held down by a piece of soil?

Which is the light of Truth? Is it the Law
That is all eyes or is it some blind love?
What leads us there? The hidden path where bent
And trembling we seek our way, or the wide road
That makes us fly with wingèd confidence?
Which is the light of Truth? Is it the Law
That everyone follows or is it some blind love?
What leads us there? The hidden path where we are bent
And trembling as we seek our way, or the wide road
That lets us soar with confident wings?

O Thought, thou dream-crowned maiden, ever wrestling
With a blood-filled, swift woman masculine,
Whose bosom, thine or hers, is doomed to yield
The destined milk to nourish and to heal
Our sickened life with health Olympian?
O Thought, you dream-crowned girl, always struggling
With a fierce, blood-filled woman,
Whose chest, whether yours or hers, is destined to provide
The chosen milk to nourish and heal
Our ailing lives with Olympian health?

O Thought, thou angel, ever wrestling on
With a strong giant flinging his hundred hands
About thy neck to strangle thee, wilt thou
Battle with sword or lily? Oh, the world
Will crumble ere thy struggle finds an end!
O Thought, you angel, always battling against
A powerful giant throwing his hundred hands
Around your neck to choke you, will you
Fight with a sword or a lily? Oh, the world
Will fall apart before your struggle concludes!

THE SINNER

O hapless one, when thou wert born, there came
The Fate thrice-blessed and clasped thee in her arms
To bless thee with a hero's mighty deeds
And wrap thee in the purple of a king,
The Fate whose blessings teem with light and might.
Oh, unfortunate one, when you were born, there came
The blessed Fate who held you in her arms
To grant you great achievements like a hero
And wrap you in royal purple,
The Fate whose blessings are filled with light and power.

Yet there, the other Fate, the bitch of ruin
Unspoken and of voiceless death, kept watch;
And she led thee away from the blue shore
With lilies sown, to the salt marsh of terror
And the sheer precipice of fearful trembling!
But there, the other Fate, the cruel one of destruction
Unseen and silently waiting for death, kept watch;
She led you away from the blue shore
Lined with lilies, to the salt marsh of fear
And the steep cliff of terrifying chills!

Nor could thy baby hands grasp more than this,
A cheerless tatter from the sacred veil
Of thy good mother Fate, the veil embroidered
With the star-spangled sky by master hand!
Nor could your tiny hands grasp anything more than this,
A dull scrap from the sacred veil
Of your good mother Fate, the veil embroidered
With the star-filled sky by a master craftsman!

O hapless One, while virgin joy bathes thee
Abundant and thy tears are yet a baby's,
Something within thee groans, the muffled madness
Of fettered murderers, the madness of
Lone cells. And while thou showest the calm life
Of tame things and of love in thy still nook,
Thou breedest fettered wraths and bridled hatreds.
Should they burst forth, ruin and wilderness
Would reign.
O hapless One, the greenest spots
Even of thy existence are but full
Of pitfalls opened wide and yawning void!
No dawning was thy lot; even those boughs
Young of thine early years were parched with drought!
Whatever white thou touchedst was defiled!
And thine old age, if thou couldst bare thy youth,
Would shriek with fear and fly from thy youth's face!
Oh, unfortunate one, while pure joy surrounds you
Abundantly and your tears are still like a baby's,
Something deep within you struggles, the silent madness
Of trapped souls, the madness of
Isolated cells. And while you show a peaceful life
Of gentle things and love in your quiet corner,
You harbor hidden anger and restrained hatred.
If they were to break free, destruction and chaos
Would take over.
Oh, unfortunate one, even the greenest parts
Of your existence are filled
With open pitfalls and gaping voids!
There was no dawn in your fate; even the branches
From your early years were dried up with thirst!
Whatever white you touched was tainted!
And your old age, if you could confront your youth,
Would scream in fear and flee from your youthful face!

A sneering power or a grace divine
Mercilessly nailed down thy hands and will,
O cowardly, decrepit, idle man,
Infirm and hapless, starless night enclosed
In a weak child! Death will not come to thee
As to the toiling laborer who toils
The whole day long, and towards evening, sleep,
Even before he lies, in bed to rest,
Creeps sweetly upon him and seals his eyes.
A mocking power or a divine grace
Cruelly held down your hands and will,
Oh cowardly, worn-out, lazy man,
Weak and unfortunate, surrounded by
A fragile child! Death won’t come to you
Like it does to the hardworking laborer who works
All day long, and by evening, sleep,
Even before he lies down to rest,
Gently comes over him and closes his eyes.

Thy death shall be laden with graspless horror
Such as one feels who sinned in secrecy
And dreads each hour detection of his sin,
Trial, death sentence, and the hangman's rope.
Your death will be filled with gripping terror
Like what someone feels who has sinned in secret
And fears every hour the discovery of their sin,
Trial, death sentence, and the executioner's rope.

O hapless One, would that in thy death struggle
Her bosom might still shine before thine eyes,
The good Fate's breast, who blessed thy birth with goodness,
The Fate whose blessings teem with light and might!
Would that thou couldst show her the humble shred
Torn from the star-wrought sacred veil of hers
And tell her: "See, in the deep darkness smiles
Something, a dawn on which I still hold fast!"
Oh, unfortunate one, I wish that in your death struggle
Her chest could still glow before your eyes,
The good Fate's heart, who blessed your birth with kindness,
The Fate whose blessings are full of light and strength!
I wish you could show her the little piece
Torn from her starry, sacred veil
And tell her: "Look, in the deep darkness shines
Something, a dawn that I still cling to!"

O hapless One! Would that the mighty heroes
And royal purples and the blessings full
Of light and might and all thou knewest not
In thy dark empty life could shine upon
Thy passing as the lights of distant stars!
Oh, unfortunate one! If only the great heroes
And royal riches and the blessings full
Of light and strength and all you didn’t know
In your dark, empty life could shine upon
Your passing like the lights of distant stars!

THE END

A wedding guest, I travel far abroad!
The bride, thrice-beautiful; the groom, a wizard;
And I ride swiftly to the wedding feast.
The land is far, and I must travel on;
An endless path before me leads away.
As a wedding guest, I'm traveling a long way!
The bride is stunningly beautiful; the groom is enchanting;
And I'm hurrying to the wedding celebration.
The journey is long, and I have to keep moving;
An endless road stretches before me.

And the far land a vision was! The steed,
A smoke! The wedding, angels' shadows fleet!
While I,—O cruel wakening!—lie down
For ever palsy-stricken and bed-ridden!
And that faraway land feels like a dream! The horse,
A cloud of smoke! The wedding, as fleeting as angels' shadows!
While I—oh, what a rude awakening!—lie down
Forever paralyzed and stuck in bed!

And only you, old tunes familiar,
I hold. I hold you as a dying darling child,
Languid and glowing with the fever's heat,
Holds on to his dear plaything, with white wings
New-grown for his long journey, even I,
The child unskilled, dream-roaming, stript of will!
And only you, old familiar songs,
I hold dear. I treasure you like a dying beloved child,
Weak and burning with fever,
Clutching their favorite toy, with new white wings
Prepared for the long journey ahead, just like I,
The unskilled child, lost in dreams, stripped of will!

Old tunes familiar, waft me upon
Your shining wings for healing or for death
To the cool shadow of the pure-white home
And lay me gently on a loving bosom.
Old familiar songs, lift me up on
Your shining wings for healing or for death
To the cool shade of the pure-white home
And lay me gently on a loving chest.

THE PALM TREE

TO DOSINES, WHO HEARD IT FIRST.

THE PALM TREE

Once in a garden about a palm tree's shade, some blue flowers, here very dark and there very light, talked with each other. A poet who now is dead, passed by; and he put their talk into these rhythms:

Once in a garden under the shade of a palm tree, some blue flowers, some very dark and others light, were chatting with each other. A poet who is now gone walked by and captured their conversation in these rhythms:

O Palm Tree, someone's hand has cast us here;
Was it the hand led by a cursed Fate,
Or moved by mind of good intent? Who knows?
What impulse seized us from the cave of sleep
Below to bring us to the surface here?
Is it a savior's or destroyer's power
That sets us motionless beneath thy shade?
And is thy shade the shade of life or death?
Oh Palm Tree, someone has put us here;
Was it the hand led by a cursed Fate,
Or by someone with good intentions? Who knows?
What drove us from the cave of sleep
Below to raise us up to the surface here?
Is it the influence of a savior or a destroyer
That keeps us still under your shade?
And is your shade the shade of life or death?

* * * * *
* * * * *

The glare of the hot sun drowned everything;
Gluttonous locusts groped for food about;
And then, a rain. The flowers, that had drooped
To sleep, awake to drink the drops of dew.
And then, the clear sky's festival begins
More azure than before to spread above thee.
The harsh sun blotted out everything;
Greedy locusts searched for food all around;
And then, rain came. The flowers, which had wilted
To rest, woke up to soak in the drops of dew.
And then, the celebration of the clear sky begins,
More blue than ever, spreading above you.

Only thy trembling crest drops here and there
Some large and shining rain-pearls on the earth.
Only your trembling crown drops here and there
Some large and shining raindrops on the ground.

* * * * *
* * * * *

The garden glitters with a new-born life;
And each bird dreams it is a nightingale;
Only from thy lone heights like bullets fall
Thy pearl-clear drops, and oh, the pain thereof!
The dew drops make a crown for everything;
The gurgling waters are a balm to all;
Why should this god-sent goodness of all things
Be blow for us and suffering and flame?
The garden sparkles with new life;
And every bird imagines it’s a nightingale;
Only from your lonely heights like bullets fall
Your crystal-clear drops, and oh, the pain of it!
The dew drops create a crown for everything;
The gurgling waters soothe everyone;
Why should this divine goodness of everything
Bring us pain and suffering and fire?

* * * * *
* * * * *

How cruelly thy bullets fall and smite!
No ear above and not an eye before us!
Beneath thy shade we live; thy trunk is world
To us; thy crown, a star-spun sky, our sky!
If thou art a god merciless, reveal
Thyself! If not, but nod and give us calm!
Either cease slaying us one by one, or pour
On us at once a flood to drown us all!
How cruelly your bullets fall and strike!
No ear above and not an eye in front of us!
Under your shade we live; your trunk is our world
To us; your crown, a starry sky, our sky!
If you are a merciless god, reveal
Yourself! If not, then just nod and give us peace!
Either stop killing us one by one, or pour
On us all at once a flood to drown us!

Our pain is as reward and treasure found!
The golden seal of harmony has stamped us,
And while Death touches us, we glory, victors!
We tremble; hail O rhythm's thrice-sacred tremor!
A worm may live sunless beneath the earth
That a new butterfly of silken wings
May live an hour of perfect life and die.
The wound's gash turns into a living fountain!
Our pain is a reward and treasure discovered!
The golden mark of harmony has branded us,
And even though Death comes our way, we celebrate, conquering!
We shake; hail to the rhythm's three-times-holy tremor!
A worm might exist in darkness below the ground
So that a new butterfly with silky wings
Can experience one hour of a perfect life before it dies.
The wound's gash transforms into a living fountain!

* * * * *
* * * * *

Things gray, things crystal, myriad hues of green,
Gushings of fountains clear, and caterpillars,
Earth's things immovable, air-sailing ships,
And little worms, and bees, and butterflies,
Sweet flower-grails and censers, fondling grass,
The moss-down's countless kisses, echoes from
Below, and mandolins ethereal,
Leaves quivering and lilies languor-bringing!
Things gray, things crystal, countless shades of green,
Streams of clear fountains, and caterpillars,
Earth's unchanging things, ships sailing through the air,
And little worms, bees, and butterflies,
Sweet flower cups and incense, caressing grass,
The countless kisses of the moss, echoes from
Below, and ethereal mandolins,
Leaves trembling and lilies bringing a sense of calm!

* * * * *
* * * * *

The turtle-doves know not what you know, blossoms,
The chosen things of beautiful loves, you!
Kisses and starts and wooings of the boughs!
The birth of each of you is a world's dawn!
You know, O little tearful short-lived things,
You know pleasure's and joy's eternities!
We, the gold garlands wreathed about thy root,
Are like celestial and thoughtful eyes!
The turtle-doves don’t understand what you know, blossoms,
The special things of beautiful love, you!
Kisses and sparks and flirtations of the branches!
The arrival of each of you is like a new day for the world!
You know, oh little tearful, short-lived things,
You know the endlessness of pleasure and joy!
We, the gold garlands wrapped around your base,
Are like heavenly and thoughtful eyes!

* * * * *
* * * * *

Blithe flowers, boughs that hang with blossoms full,
From dandelions to the chamaemele,
You may be like the glowing coals or gems,
Or like a maiden's rosy cheeks and lips.
Though you, like hands, may open full or empty,
And though you be dawn's smiles or evening's candles,
Or the fair palaces of Fairy Dew,
The gazing eyes are we! We are the eyes!
Joyful flowers, branches hanging with full blossoms,
From dandelions to chamomile,
You might be like glowing coals or precious gems,
Or like a girl's rosy cheeks and lips.
Even if you, like hands, can be wide open or empty,
And whether you are the smiles of dawn or the candles of evening,
Or the beautiful palaces of Fairy Dew,
We are the watching eyes! We are the eyes!

* * * * *
* * * * *

Though small we are, a great world hides in us;
And in us clouds of care and dales of grief
You may descry; the sky's tranquility;
The heaving of the sea about the ships
At evenings; tears that roll not down the cheeks;
And something else inexplicable. Oh,
What prison's kin are we? Who would believe it?
One, damnèd, and godlike, dwells in us; and she is Thought!
Though we're small, a vast world lives inside us;
And within us, you can see the clouds of worry and valleys of sorrow;
The calm of the sky;
The waves crashing around the ships
At dusk; tears that don't fall from our cheeks;
And something else we can't explain. Oh,
What kind of prison are we in? Who would even believe it?
One, cursed yet divine, resides within us; and she is Thought!

* * * * *
* * * * *

Frolick, and form, and wanton playfulness,
And some unspoken radiant vanity,
And some enrapturing bewitching charm,
And perfect virgin beauty are your own!
Fading like gods' pale images, you seem!
Even the bird sometimes bows to your grace!
And Nereids wind-footed fan your faces,
O roses with a thousand smiles divine!
Frolicking, shaping, and playful mischief,
And some unspoken glowing pride,
And some captivating, enchanting charm,
And pure, flawless beauty are yours!
Fading like the pale images of gods, you appear!
Even the birds occasionally bow to your elegance!
And Nereids with swift feet fan your faces,
O roses with a thousand divine smiles!

* * * * *
* * * * *

A god commanded it, the flower-haired April!
"O flowing fragrance, change to brilliancy!"
Thus you are scentless, roses of Bengal;
All others' perfume is bright light in you.
And thou, O lily, king among the flowers,
From what far world hast thou been led astray?
Was it from fragrance's own womb, or from
The whitest star? And we, O Palm? Who knows!
A god commanded it, the flower-haired April!
"O flowing fragrance, transform into brilliance!"
So you are scentless, roses of Bengal;
Every other perfume shines brightly in you.
And you, O lily, the king among flowers,
From what distant world have you wandered off?
Was it from the very essence of fragrance, or from
The purest star? And we, O Palm? Who knows!

River ethereal of fragrance, stay!
Thou hast not flowed nor watered us at birth.
We said to fragrance: "Cease thy flowing course;
Well not from us; nor be our breath! Sink deep
Into our heart's recesses; close thyself
Regardless of thy perfume in our soul!
Then seek to find our thought and live with it
And flow from it as honey from the bee!"
River of lovely scent, stay!
You haven’t flowed or nourished us at birth.
We told the fragrance: "Stop your flowing path;
Don’t come from us; don’t be our breath! Sink deep
Into the hidden corners of our hearts; close yourself
No matter how your scent lingers in our souls!
Then try to understand our thoughts and be with them
And flow from them like honey from the bee!"

* * * * *
* * * * *

"Bring forth from the rich treasures of the sun
All colors, flowers, and deck yourselves with them!"
We said unto our little brothers: "Make
Robes of the heaven's rainbow for your raiment!"
And to ourselves we said: "Soul, I
Shall let aside all brilliance! I need not
Sunset or dawn; enough would be something
Of the great sea and of the heaven's smile!"
"Bring forth from the rich treasures of the sun
All colors, flowers, and adorn yourselves with them!"
We told our little brothers: "Create
Robes from the rainbow of the sky for your clothing!"
And to ourselves we said: "Soul, I
Will set aside all brilliance! I don’t need
Sunset or dawn; just a bit of the
Great sea and the smile of the heavens will be enough!"

* * * * *
* * * * *

Become a cloud, O great Desire, and speak
With lightnings and with thunders! Rise, a lark,
And sing and soar towards a new starry garden!
Turn all thy flooding music into love,
Mingle with it all children's innocence
And all the beauty that is thine; still thou
Wilt have love's shadow only but not love.
For love shines, burns, illumines quenchlessly!
Become a cloud, O great Desire, and speak
With lightning and thunder! Rise, a lark,
And sing and soar toward a new starry garden!
Turn all your overflowing music into love,
Blend it with all children's innocence
And all the beauty that is yours; yet you
Will have love's shadow only but not love.
For love shines, burns, and illuminates endlessly!

* * * * *
* * * * *

The garden draws life from a triple soul,
A soul that spreads creeping upon the earth
With roots beneath and wings above. A city,
The caterpillar builds in its great depths;
The bird builds love towards heights ethereal!
About all green things live to be thy slaves
And trimming ornaments, O palm! How high
Skyward thou raisest thy grace-moulded body!
The garden gets its life from a threefold spirit,
A spirit that creeps along the ground
With roots below and wings above. A city,
The caterpillar creates in its deep spaces;
The bird builds its love towards the heights of the sky!
All living green things exist to serve you,
And trimming your ornaments, oh palm! How high
You lift your beautifully shaped body towards the sky!

* * * * *
* * * * *

No ivy limits and no offshoot mars
Thy trunk's unchained and chiseled nakedness;
And yet, though naked, with a charm dream-wrought
Thou coverest the alleys of the garden.
And as an emblem of thy reign, a crown
Of beams pearl-born and silver-born shines bright
As it hangs trembling from thy top, O palm.
Oh what a rhythm governs thy form divine!
No ivy restricts you, and no offshoot blemishes
Your unbound and sculpted bare trunk;
And yet, even though you're bare, with a charm crafted in dreams,
You adorn the pathways of the garden.
And as a symbol of your dominion, a crown
Of beams born of pearls and silver shines brightly
As it hangs delicately from your top, O palm.
Oh, what a rhythm guides your divine form!

* * * * *
* * * * *

So beautiful is not the cypress young
As it waves towards the sky, moved by the breeze!
So beautiful is not the mossy fountain
That sings like bard and nourishes like mother!
So beautiful is not sunrise or sunset!
Another world's day hangs from thy high crest!
So beautiful is not the tranquil lake!
Gods and their hymns god-sung are at thy feet!
So beautiful is not the young cypress
As it sways towards the sky, stirred by the breeze!
So beautiful is not the moss-covered fountain
That sings like a bard and nurtures like a mother!
So beautiful is not the sunrise or sunset!
Another world’s day hangs from your high peak!
So beautiful is not the calm lake!
Gods and their songs sung by gods are at your feet!

* * * * *
* * * * *

Neither an angel's shade in a hermit's cave,
Nor harmony's voice in Night's deep silence,
Nor the great maker's thought just as it dawns
In his wide-fronted heaven, and is still
A maiden dream unyoked before it finds
A dwelling in the form of word or music,
Color or marble! None of these is like
Thine image caught and mirrored in our thought!
Neither an angel's spirit in a hermit's cave,
Nor the sound of harmony in the deep silence of night,
Nor the creator's thought just as it begins
In his vast sky, and is still
A maiden dream untethered before it takes
Shape in the form of words or music,
Color or marble! None of these is like
Your image captured and reflected in our minds!

Is it transparent and immortal blood
That flows in thee, or sap too weak to wake thee
From thy long spell of blind and voiceless sleep
Into a crystal life's fair revelry?
Is thy head's crown another's counterfeit,
Or thine own locks that smitten by the wind
Become stringed lyres to sing in murmurs sweet
Of the world's symphony and of thy beauty?
Is it clear and eternal blood
That runs in you, or weak sap that can’t wake you
From your long, blind, and silent sleep
Into the bright celebration of life?
Is the crown on your head fake,
Or is it your own hair that, brushed by the wind,
Turns into stringed lyres, singing sweetly
Of the world’s harmony and of your beauty?

* * * * *
* * * * *

Neither thy boughs nor locks they are, but wings
That thou wouldst ply with gentle flutterings!
Wings? They are not, though they become; and ever
A hunger tortures thee, and ever thou
Strugglest to enter a sublimer world!
Right, left, high, far, thou seekest a fair city,
Some sunlit Athens, and standest bent on flying
With swans and cranes towards the azure heavens.
Neither your branches nor your hair, but wings
That you would move with gentle flutters!
Wings? They aren't, though they seem to be; and always
A hunger pains you, and you
Struggle to enter a higher world!
To the right, to the left, up high, far away, you seek a beautiful city,
Some sunlit Athens, and you are determined to fly
With swans and cranes towards the blue sky.

* * * * *
* * * * *

Art thou a relic of a dead age and great,
Or the first dew of a becoming life?
Now some Wood Nymph bound within thee peeps out
Struggling to flow into the light about;
And now thou risest like the column last
Of an old temple that once stood in Hellas.
Evening or morning, end or a beginning,
Something binds thee to skies beyond all sight.
Are you a relic of a bygone era, or
The first drop of a new life?
Now a Wood Nymph trapped inside you peeks out,
Struggling to break free into the light;
And now you rise like the last column
Of an ancient temple that once stood in Greece.
Evening or morning, end or beginning,
Something connects you to skies beyond our view.

* * * * *
* * * * *

Hosannas from thy boughs and palm leaves flow,
Hosannas from thy royal height, as prayer
To some unknown god's charms, who passes by
Revealing his fair godhead first to thee.
And lo, the hillsides answer thine hosannas!
Oh, what thy visions, what thy secrets are?
Some tremor, from new heavens wafted, makes
The supple flowers and green leaves quiver.
Hosannas from your branches and palm leaves flow,
Hosannas from your royal height, like a prayer
To some unknown god’s charms, who passes by
Revealing his beautiful essence first to you.
And look, the hillsides respond to your hosannas!
Oh, what are your visions, what are your secrets?
Some tremor, carried from new heavens, makes
The delicate flowers and green leaves shiver.

* * * * *
* * * * *

And we? The migrant bird did come to us;
The passing wind did touch us with its wing;
The restless brook did check its rapid course;
The child did cast on us his guileless glance;
The jonquil proud did greet us with a nod;
And the moon did look down to see us here;
And all beheld our surface; none our depths!
Thus the world glided over us and vanished!
And what about us? The migrating bird came to us;
The passing wind brushed against us;
The restless brook slowed its rapid flow;
The child gave us his innocent look;
The proud jonquil nodded at us;
And the moon looked down to see us here;
And everyone saw our surface; no one noticed our depths!
So the world passed over us and disappeared!

* * * * *
* * * * *

Sweet orange blossoms, what asked the nightingales?
What would the dry cicala know of noontide?
All things that groan from the great depths of earth,
All songs that mount exultant to the stars,
The eating moth's faint voice, the restless cricket's,
Perfumes and breezes, creatures lone and mated,
All things that fly and creep and bend and stoop,
Something they know of thee and hide it from us.
Sweet orange blossoms, what did the nightingales ask?
What would the dry cicada know about noon?
All things that groan from the deep earth,
All songs that rise joyfully to the stars,
The faint voice of the eating moth, the restless cricket,
Perfumes and breezes, creatures alone and in pairs,
All things that fly, creep, bend, and stoop,
They know something about you and keep it from us.

* * * * *
* * * * *

Within our breasts, a soul of storm and pitch
Puts into our minds evil thoughts of thee.
The magpie chatters long to the night bat
Of thee; the locust boasts she is like thee;
The wasp draws ample pleasure in thy shelter;
And the night raven finds delight in thee.
A world of evil and of scorn lies wait
For thee who mountest tranquil to the stars.
Within us, a troubled soul
Fills our minds with dark thoughts of you.
The magpie chatters away to the night bat
About you; the locust brags she’s like you;
The wasp finds great enjoyment in your shelter;
And the night raven takes pleasure in you.
A world of malice and disdain awaits
For you who ascend peacefully to the stars.

O Health blown from the heart of the pure pine!
Where thy feet tread, fruits grow 'midst thorns and clover;
If with the streams thou flowest, the elements
Shine; for pure wine, thou reapest the fair clusters;
And where thou lingerest, a city rises!
Thy breasts flow ever with milk; thy lips with dew!
O mother fruitful, strong, and whole, some ill
Rots us and we are pale like death's faint tapers!
Oh Health, risen from the heart of the pure pine!
Where you walk, fruits grow among thorns and clover;
If you flow with the streams, the elements
Shine; for pure wine, you gather the beautiful clusters;
And where you stay, a city blossoms!
Your breasts always flow with milk; your lips with dew!
O fruitful, strong, and complete mother, some illness
Rotting us makes us pale like death's faint candles!

* * * * *
* * * * *

Boughs, tresses, wings; shadows whose grace divine
Frolics and spreads as bough or tress or wing;
Another night, you took another form
In the enchanted pitiless moonlight,
A form that was neither bough, tress, nor wing:
Swords you seemed, ready to descend and smite!
Night's roaming butterfly, be merciful!
Lift us upon thy wings and fly away!
Boughs, tresses, wings; shadows with divine grace
Dancing around as boughs, tresses, or wings;
Another night, you changed into something else
In the magical, unforgiving moonlight,
A shape that was neither bough, tress, nor wing:
You looked like swords, poised to strike!
Night's wandering butterfly, have mercy!
Carry us on your wings and help us escape!

* * * * *
* * * * *

Illness and wakefulness have tortured us,
O palm, and we saw thee bend secretly!
The dragon's heads and dogwoods were awake;
We saw thee leading a strange dance with them
At night; and in our first sleep, we beheld thee
A heavy dream roaming with mulleins and
Chameleons; about thee closed whole gardens
Of thistles, aloes hard, and hosts of briars!
Illness and sleeplessness have tormented us,
Oh palm, and we saw you bend in secret!
The dragon's heads and dogwoods were awake;
We saw you leading a strange dance with them
At night; and in our first sleep, we saw you
As a heavy dream wandering with mulleins and
Chameleons; around you closed whole gardens
Of thistles, tough aloes, and clusters of briars!

* * * * *
* * * * *

We dreamed and lo, thou wert demanding tribute
Of life, blood-drenched; and in thy being raged
A savage hunger; and some beast flesh-eating
Nestled in thee and gnawed a hole through thee;
And thy winged body turned into a cave;
A vulture perched as crown upon thy head;
And like fire-flames, and sea-waves, and sword-blades,
From root to top, fierce snakes crept up and coiled!
We dreamed, and suddenly, you were demanding tribute
Of life, soaked in blood; and within you burned
A savage hunger; and some flesh-eating beast
Lurked inside you, gnawing a hole through you;
And your winged body became a cave;
A vulture perched like a crown on your head;
And like fire flames, and ocean waves, and sword blades,
From root to tip, fierce snakes crept up and coiled!

* * * * *
* * * * *

Who ever thought of it? What Fate has ruled
That from ill-smelling things and worthless stuff
Should rise things of resplendent green? and from
Deforming filth, the thrice-pure miracle
Of May and April? Hence things blue and black
Mingle in us; and in our souls, spread oceans
And narrow paths; and while our minds converse
With things sublime, something thrice-base defiles us!
Who ever thought of that? What fate has decided
That from bad-smelling things and useless stuff
Should come brilliant green? And from
Disgusting filth, the beautiful miracle
Of May and April? Hence blue and black
Mix within us; and in our souls, spread oceans
And narrow paths; and while our minds connect
With sublime things, something truly base taints us!

* * * * *
* * * * *

O Sun, assail and strangle all black dreams,
Our life's dim vapors and ill-working demons!
But nourish all things good and beautiful
Like sunbeams playing and like nightingales!
And thou, O moon, spread over savage Night
A veil translucent of heart-felt sympathy!
Wave everywhere, O Beauty's purple robe!
Let the great world be love and love's sweet lyre!
Oh Sun, attack and eliminate all dark dreams,
Our life’s gloomy shadows and troubling spirits!
But nurture everything good and beautiful
Like sunbeams dancing and like nightingales!
And you, oh moon, cast across fierce Night
A translucent veil of genuine empathy!
Flow everywhere, oh Beauty's purple cloak!
Let the great world be love and love's sweet melody!

* * * * *
* * * * *

Day comes! Light scatters a thousand eyes on thee
So that thou mayest greet the woods and mountains,
The nests upon the trees, the palaces
Of cities, and the ships on open seas
Or ports. At nights, mounted on steeds of light
Beautiful Fairies come from high to serve thee;
The poplar lifts its many hands to thee;
And the dark cypresses lull thee to sleep.
Day breaks! Light spreads a thousand eyes on you
So you can welcome the woods and mountains,
The nests in the trees, the castles
Of cities, and the ships on the open seas
Or in ports. At night, riding on steeds of light
Beautiful Fairies come down to serve you;
The poplar raises its many arms to you;
And the dark cypresses rock you to sleep.

With pelicans and eagles thou conversest,
And drop by drop thou drinkest the world's music;
Thou seest things far, things near, and things above;
Things infinite, intangible, and great;
And thou communest with air-sailing ships,
Light-rays, and wings, and the world-mounting ladder;
While we, bent low, and lashed by sorrow's whip,
Listen to the great throbbing of Earth's heart!
With pelicans and eagles you talk,
And sip the world’s music little by little;
You see things far away, things close, and things above;
Things infinite, intangible, and grand;
And you connect with ships sailing through the air,
Light rays, and wings, and the ladder to the world;
While we, hunched over and whipped by sorrow,
Listen to the powerful heartbeat of Earth!

* * * * *
* * * * *

We heard it, the great throbbing of Earth's heart,
The new song inconceivable, unheard,
Of consummate and perfect sound!
Through it, some thunder-stricken angel groans;
All April's gardens breathe in fragrant balms;
Some unfulfilled and secret longings weep;
And a fire crackles that will ruin worlds!
Something that passes by, an endless riddle!
We felt it, the deep pulsing of Earth's heart,
The new song that's unimaginable, unheard,
Of flawless and perfect sound!
Through it, some thunder-struck angel sighs;
All of April's gardens exude sweet scents;
Some unfulfilled and hidden desires cry;
And a fire crackles that could destroy worlds!
Something that moves past, an eternal mystery!

* * * * *
* * * * *

Tell thou the sunlit story of the air;
We shall unroll to you the tale of blackness.
Come, let us mingle the two elements,
Thy mighty power with our own winning grace!
In unseen places, small and cold and sunless,
A world of workers and of corsairs dwell;
And there are paths and deeds of theirs, and days,
And what the infinite air-spheres have not!
Tell the sunlit story of the sky;
We will share with you the tale of darkness.
Come, let’s blend the two elements,
Your mighty power with our own charm!
In hidden spots, small and cold and without light,
A world of workers and pirates exists;
And there are their paths and deeds, and days,
And what the endless air has not!

* * * * *
* * * * *

A swarm of bees has told us of their life,
And a new youth and wise shone unto us!
The grass hides unsuspected miracles;
Beside us, the ant opens a deep path;
A lizard, slowly creeping from below,
Brought us here news of countries, nations, arts;
A butterfly on her swift flight to wed
The little flowers broadened our world of thought!
A swarm of bees has shared their life with us,
And a new, wise youth has appeared before us!
The grass conceals unexpected wonders;
Next to us, the ant is creating a deep path;
A lizard, slowly creeping from below,
Brought us news from distant lands, peoples, and crafts;
A butterfly, quickly flying to marry
The little flowers expanded our thoughts!

* * * * *
* * * * *

Unwedded, fruitless Palm, fair mystery!
Strange was the hour—who will believe it now?—
The divine world willed to become a thought,
And thought revealed itself unto our mind!
Now, unto darkness and to riddles new,
Our little life is ready to depart!
O Palm, make answer; lo, before thou speakest
Thy word sublime, a hand lays wait to smite!
Unmarried, barren Palm, intriguing mystery!
It was a strange time—who would believe it now?—
The divine world chose to become an idea,
And that idea revealed itself to our minds!
Now, as we face darkness and new puzzles,
Our brief lives are ready to leave!
Oh Palm, respond; look, before you speak
Your profound word, a hand is prepared to strike!

* * * * *
* * * * *

O Palm, a hand did spread to sow us here;
That hand will spread again to root us out,
And we shall die! The billow and the wind
And the still waters will sweep us away
Mercilessly! The flowery spring will not
Lament us! The wide world will never know
We perished! And beneath thy shadow's charms,
Another fragrant race will rise to life.
Oh Palm, a hand reached out to plant us here;
That hand will reach out again to uproot us,
And we will die! The waves and the wind
And the calm waters will wash us away
Without mercy! The blooming spring will not
Mourn for us! The vast world will never know
That we vanished! And beneath your shadow’s beauty,
Another fragrant generation will come to life.

* * * * *
* * * * *

Nor will there be a monument for us
That might retain the phantom of our passing!
Only about thee will a robe of light
Adorn thee with a new and deathless gleam:
And it shall be our thought, and word, and rime!
And in the eyes of an astonished world,
Thou wilt appear like a gold-green new star;
Yet neither thou nor others will know of us!
Nor will there be a monument for us
That might keep the memory of our existence!
Only around you will a robe of light
Dress you with a new and everlasting shine:
And it will be our thought, our words, and our rhyme!
And in the eyes of a surprised world,
You will shine like a gold-green new star;
Yet neither you nor anyone else will know of us!

FOOTNOTES

[1] This essay is republished, with a few changes, from Poet Lore, vol. xxviii, no. 1, pp. 78-104.

[2] My translation of it originally appeared in the Stratford Journal, from which I quote it in its entirety.

[2] My translation of it first appeared in the Stratford Journal, and I'm quoting it here in full.

[3] Tigrane Yergate, op. cit., p. 710.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Tigrane Yergate, op. cit., p. 710.

[4] Jean Moréas, Voyage de Grèce, 1898.

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Jean Moréas, Voyage to Greece, 1898.

[5] On Patras, the birth-place of the poet. See Introduction, p. 13.

[5] In Patras, the birthplace of the poet. See Introduction, p. 13.

[6] On Missolonghi, the place of the poet's childhood. See Introduction, p. 15.

[6] About Missolonghi, where the poet grew up. Check out Introduction, p. 15.

[7] On the Island of Corfu, one of the most important centers of the literary renaissance of modern Greece.

[7] On the Island of Corfu, one of the key hubs of the literary revival in modern Greece.

[8] Iacobos Polylas, 1826-98, translator of the Odyssey and of parts of the Iliad, and an important figure in the struggle for the vernacular. He has also translated some of Shakespeare's plays.

[8] Iacobos Polylas, 1826-98, was a translator of the Odyssey and parts of the Iliad, and played a key role in the fight for the use of the vernacular language. He also translated several of Shakespeare's plays.

[9] Dionysios Solomos, born in Zante, 1748, died in Corfu, 1857. He is the first great poet of modern Greece. He has written lyrics in Italian and in Greek. Several of his songs have spread as folk songs throughout the Greek world. He is mainly known as the poet of the modern Greek national hymn to Liberty.

[9] Dionysios Solomos, born in Zante in 1748 and died in Corfu in 1857, is the first significant poet of modern Greece. He wrote lyrics in both Italian and Greek. Many of his songs have become popular folk tunes across the Greek world. He is best known as the poet of the modern Greek national anthem, "Hymn to Liberty."

[10] Gerasimos Markoras, born in Cephalonia, 1826, died in Corfu, 1911, a lyric and epic poet. His poem "Oath" was inspired by the Cretan struggle for freedom.

[10] Gerasimos Markoras, born in Cephalonia in 1826 and passed away in Corfu in 1911, was a lyric and epic poet. His poem "Oath" was influenced by the Cretan fight for freedom.

[11] On Egypt, whence the first lights of civilization dawned on Greece.

[11] On Egypt, where the first sparks of civilization emerged for Greece.

[12] On Mt. Athos, the Holy Mountain of the modern Greeks, inhabited by about ten thousand monks. Although called by its hermits "the virgin's garden" no female creature is allowed to enter its ground.

[12] On Mt. Athos, the Holy Mountain of present-day Greeks, home to around ten thousand monks. Even though its hermits refer to it as "the virgin's garden," no women are allowed to set foot on its land.

[13] Panselenus, a famous Byzantine painter, who is believed to be the author of some of the Madonnas and Christs found in the monasteries of the mountain.

[13] Panselenus, a well-known Byzantine painter, is thought to be the creator of several of the Madonnas and Christs located in the monasteries on the mountain.

[14] On classic Greece, in contrast with the following sonnet which refers to the spirit of Greece throughout the ages, from the classic period to the time of the Byzantine Empire.

[14] In classical Greece, unlike the following sonnet that reflects the enduring spirit of Greece from ancient times to the Byzantine Empire.

[15] The Islands of the Ionian Sea.

[15] The Islands in the Ionian Sea.

[16] The hero of medieval Greece, Digenes Akritas, who is supposed to have lived on the slopes of the Taurus mountains in Asia Minor and to have fought against the invading Saracens. There are a great number of folk-songs about him not only in Greek but in Turkish, Bulgarian, Serbian, and Albanian as well.

[16] The hero from medieval Greece, Digenes Akritas, is said to have lived on the slopes of the Taurus mountains in Asia Minor and fought against the invading Saracens. There are many folk songs about him not just in Greek but also in Turkish, Bulgarian, Serbian, and Albanian.

[17] The word, meaning "blessed one," is here applied to ideal womanhood and must not be confused with Makaria of p. 103, the mythical Theban princess.

[17] The word, meaning "blessed one," is used here to describe the ideal woman and should not be confused with Makaria of p. 103, the mythical Theban princess.

[18] The translator of Homer and Shakespeare. See notes 8 and 9, p. 80.

[19] A pseudonym for Constantine Chatzopoulos, one of the leading literary figures in Athens to-day. He has written poems under this pseudonym. But he is now mainly known as a master of short stories which he has published under his real name, and as the translator of Göthe's Faust and of Hofmannsthal's Electra. This poem dedicated to him was written during the unfortunate Greco-Turkish war of 1897.

[19] A pen name for Constantine Chatzopoulos, one of the top literary figures in Athens today. He has written poems under this pen name. However, he is now primarily recognized as a master of short stories published under his real name, and as the translator of Goethe's Faust and Hofmannsthal's Electra. This poem dedicated to him was written during the unfortunate Greco-Turkish war of 1897.

[20] Maviles was born in Ithaca, 1860, and fell in the battle of Driscos, November 29, 1912. He is the writer of exquisite sonnets and the successful translator of various foreign poems. The Cretan Revolution of 1896 is here alluded to, which led to the Greco-Turkish war of 1897. Maviles was one of the first to hasten to Crete to help in the struggle for liberty.

[20] Maviles was born in Ithaca in 1860 and died in the battle of Driscos on November 29, 1912. He wrote beautiful sonnets and successfully translated various foreign poems. The Cretan Revolution of 1896 is mentioned here, which led to the Greco-Turkish War of 1897. Maviles was one of the first to rush to Crete to support the fight for freedom.

[21] Alexandros Pallis is one of the greatest literary figures of contemporary Greece, who, like Psicharis, has lived mostly far from Greece. He is a poet, a critic, and a satirist. But his fame is mainly due to his translation of the Iliad and that of the New Testament. The publication of the latter caused the student riots of 1901.

[21] Alexandros Pallis is one of the greatest literary figures in modern Greece, who, like Psicharis, has spent much of his life away from Greece. He is a poet, critic, and satirist. However, he is mainly known for his translation of the Iliad and the New Testament. The release of the latter sparked the student riots of 1901.

[22] The poet had in mind the following lines of Sully Prudhomme from his Stances et Poèmes, L'âme:

[22] The poet was thinking of these lines from Sully Prudhomme's Stances et Poèmes, L'âme:

Tous les corps offrent des contours,
Mais d'ou vienne la forme qui touche?
Comment fais-tu les grands amours,
Petite ligne de la bouche?
All bodies have shapes,
But where does the silhouette that moves us come from?
How do you create great loves,
Little line of the lips?

PRINTED AT THE HARVARD UNIVERSITY PRESS
CAMBRIDGE, MASS., U.S.A.

PRINTED AT THE HARVARD UNIVERSITY PRESS
CAMBRIDGE, MA, U.S.A.

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

KOSTES PALAMAS

LIFE IMMOVABLE FIRST PART

PREFACE

CONTENTS

KOSTES PALAMAS[1] A NEW WORLD-POET

I THE STRUGGLE

II LIFE INFLUENCES

Athens, the Violet-Crowned

Athens, the Centre of Greece

The Guitar

8

9

The Grave

The World Beyond Greece

Europe

I. THE WAR

II. THE THINKER

III. THE POET

LIFE IMMOVABLE FIRST PART

1. Fatherlands

3. Fragments from the Song to the Sun

4. Verses of a Familiar Tune

5. The Palm Tree

LIFE IMMOVABLE INTRODUCTORY POEM

I[5]

II[6]

III

IV[7]

V[11]

VI[12]

VII[14]

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

TO PALLIS[21] FOR HIS "ILIAD"

THE RETURN 1897

FRAGMENTS FROM THE SONG TO THE SUN 1899

VERSES OF A FAMILIAR TUNE 1900

FOOTNOTES

LIFE IMMOVABLE

FIRST PART

KOSTES PALAMAS [1]

A NEW WORLD-POET

I
THE STRUGGLE

II
LIFE INFLUENCES

LIFE IMMOVABLE

FIRST PART

LIFE IMMOVABLE

INTRODUCTORY POEM

TO PALLIS [21] FOR HIS "ILIAD"

THE RETURN
1897

FRAGMENTS FROM THE SONG TO THE SUN
1899

VERSES OF A FAMILIAR TUNE
1900