FEATURES

HIGH GEAR/JUNE 1977

SAPPHO

PARTING FROM A WOMAN FRIEND (11)

My heart is broken, silent my song, Is sad dejection for death I long:

She, mournfully weeping, did from me part.

And often thus she me would address;

"Ah me! what misery does us oppress!

To leave thee, my Sappho, it breaks my heart."

Then her I answered, gently caressing:

"Depart from me with my heart-felt blessing. Remember me kindly, thou knowest my love.

"Far more than of parting think thou rather Of the beautiful hours we have spent together. Remember these aye, by the gods above.

"For many wreaths of violets blue, Of basil-thyme, and of roses too,

Thy tokens of love, hast thou given to me.

"And fragrant garlands of flowers of spring Thou wovest and to me often didst bring, About me entwining them tenderly.

"And costly salves of sweet fragrance rare, And royal balsam, to soften thy hair, Didst thou on thy head pour frequently."

TO A BELOVED MAIDEN (2)

That man who sits before thy face, Godlike he seems to me.

He hears thy words' sweet charming grace, Conversing joyously.

Thou laugh'st a laugh of pure delight; But in my breast my heart Violently flutters at thy sight: No sound from me will start.

My tongue is lamed, a fiery glow My limbs completely sears; My eyes are nothing, rumblings low Play havoc in my ears.

Hot perspiration downward drops, And trembling seizes me.

I am ghastly pale, my life-blood stops, Near death I seem to be.

PAGE 13

-SAPPHO

DAVID

HART CRANE

David's Lament

-SAPPHO

And David lamented with this lamentation over Saul and over Jonathan his son: (Also he bade them teach the children of Judah the use of the bow: behold, it is written in the book of Jasher.)

The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy

high places:

How are the mighty fallen!

Tell it not in Gath,

Publish it not in the streets of Askelon;

Lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice, Lest the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph.

Ye mountains of Gilboa,

Let there be no dew, neither let there be

rain, upon you, nor fields of offerings: For there the shield of the mighty is vilely cast away,

The shield of Saul, as though he had not been anointed with oil.

From the blood of the slain, from the fat of the mighty,

The bow of Jonathan turned not back, And the sword of Saul returned not empty.

Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their lives,

And in their death they were not divided: They were stronger than lions.

Ye daughters of Israel, weep over Saul, Who clothed you in scarlet, with other

delights,

Who put on ornaments of gold upon your apparel.

How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle!

O Jonathan, thou wast slain in thine high places.

I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan:

Very pleasant hast thou been unto me: Thy love to me was wonderful,

Passing the love of women.

How are the mighty fallen,

And the weapons of war perished!

AM-DAVID

A Hub for the Universe

I have said that the soul is not more than the body, And I have said that the body is not more than the soul, And nothing, not God, is greater to one's than one's self is, And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud.

And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,

And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confound the learning of all times,

And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become a hero,

And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheeled universe.

Praise For An Urn

In Memoriam: Ernest Nelson

It was a kind and northern face That mingled in such exile guise The everlasting eyes of Pierrot And, of Gargantua, the laughter.

His thoughts, delivered to me From the white coverlet and pillow,

I see now, were inheritancesDelicate riders of the storm.

The slant moon on the slanting hill Once moved us toward presentiments Of what the dead keep, living still, And such assessments of the soul

As, perched in the crematory lobby, The insistent clock commented on, Touching as well upon our praise Of glories proper to the time.

Still, having in mind gold hair, I cannot see that broken brow And miss the dry sound of bees Stretching across a lucid space.

Scatter these well-meant idioms Into the smoky spring that fills The suburbs, where they will be lost. They are no trophies of the sun.

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-WHITMAN

-CRANE