As I stood among the bare rocks where salt lay, peeled and flaked in its white drift,

I thought I would be the last you would want, I thought I would but scatter salt on the ripe grapes.

I thought the vine-leaves would curl under, leaf and leaf-point at my touch,

the yellow and green grapes would have dropped, my very glance must shatter the purple fruit.

I had drawn away into the salt, myself, a shell emptied of life.

IV

I pluck the cyclamen red by wine-red and place the petals stiff ivory and bright fire against my flesh.

Now I am powerless to draw back for the sea is cyclamen-purple, cyclamen-red, colour of the last grapes, colour of the purple of the flowers, cyclamen-coloured and dark.

ADONIS

I

Each of us like you has died once, each of us like you has passed through drift of wood-leaves, cracked and bent and tortured and unbent in the winter frost-- then burnt into gold points, lighted afresh, crisp amber, scales of gold-leaf, gold turned and re-welded in the sun-heat.

Each of us like you has died once, each of us has crossed an old wood-path and found the winter leaves so golden in the sun-fire that even the live wood-flowers were dark.

II

Not the gold on the temple-front where you stand, is as gold as this, not the gold that fastens your sandal, nor the gold reft through your chiselled locks is as gold as this last year’s leaf, not all the gold hammered and wrought and beaten on your lover’s face, brow and bare breast is as golden as this.

Each of us like you has died once, each of us like you stands apart, like you fit to be worshipped.

PYGMALION

I

Shall I let myself be caught in my own light, shall I let myself be broken in my own heat, or shall I cleft the rock as of old and break my own fire with its surface?

Does this fire thwart me and my craft, or my work-- does it cloud this light; which is the god, which the stone the god takes for his use?

II

Which am I, The stone or the power that lifts the rock from the earth? Am I the master of this fire, is this fire my own strength?

Am I the master of this swirl upon swirl of light-- have I made it as in old times I made the gods from the rock?

Have I made this fire from myself, or is this arrogance-- is this fire a god that seeks me in the dark?

III

I made image upon image for my use, I made image upon image, for the grace of Pallas was my flint and my help was Hephæstos.

I made god upon god step from the cold rock, I made the gods less than men for I was a man and they my work.

And now what is it that has come to pass for fire has shaken my hand, my strivings are dust.

IV

Now what is it that has come to pass? Over my head, fire stands, my marbles are alert.

Each of the gods, perfect, cries out from a perfect throat: _you are useless, no marble can bind me, no stone suggest_.

V

They have melted into the light and I am desolate, they have melted, each from his plinth, each one departs. They have gone, what agony can express my grief?

Each from his marble base has stepped into the light and my work is for naught.

VI

Now am I the power that has made this fire as of old I made the gods start from the rocks-- am I the god or does this fire carve me for its use?

EURYDICE

I

So you have swept me back-- I who could have walked with the live souls above the earth, I who could have slept among the live flowers at last.

So for your arrogance and your ruthlessness I am swept back where dead lichens drip dead cinders upon moss of ash.

So for your arrogance I am broken at last, I who had lived unconscious, who was almost forgot.