For bitter thou wast from thy birth, Aphrodite, a mother of strife;
For before thee some rest was on earth, A little respite from tears,
A little pleasure of life;
For life was not then as thou art, But as one that waxeth in years Sweet-spoken, a fruitful wife;
Earth had no thorn, and desire No sting, neither death any dart; What hadst thou to do amongst these, Thou, clothed with a burning fire, Thou, girt with sorrow of heart, Thou, sprung of the seed of the seas As an ear from a seed of corn,
As a brand plucked forth of a pyre, As a ray shed forth of the morn,
For division of soul and disease, For a dart and a sting and a thorn? What ailed thee then to be born?
Was there not evil enough,
Mother, and anguish on earth Born with a man at his birth,
Wastes underfoot, and above
Storm out of heaven, and dearth Shaken down from the shining thereof, Wrecks from afar overseas And peril of shallow and firth,
And tears that spring and increase In the barren places of mirth, That thou, having wings as a dove, Being girt with desire for a girth, That thou must come after these, That thou must lay on him love?
Thou shouldst not so have been born: But death should have risen with thee, Mother, and visible fear,
Grief, and the wringing of hands,
And noise of many that mourn; The smitten bosom, the knee Bowed, and in each man's ear A cry as of perishing lands,
A moan as of people in prison, A tumult of infinite griefs;
And thunder of storm on the sands, And wailing of wives on the shore; And under thee newly arisen Loud shoals and shipwrecking reefs, Fierce air and violent light; Sail rent and sundering oar, Darkness, and noises of night;
Clashing of streams in the sea, Wave against wave as a sword, Clamour of currents, and foam; Rains making ruin on earth, Winds that wax ravenous and roam As wolves in a wolfish horde; Fruits growing faint in the tree,
And blind things dead in their birth; Famine, and blighting of corn, When thy time was come to be born.
All these we know of; but thee Who shall discern or declare? In the uttermost ends of the sea The light of thine eyelids and hair, The light of thy bosom as fire
Between the wheel of the sun
And the flying flames of the air?
Wilt thou turn thee not yet nor have pity,
But abide with despair and desire And the crying of armies undone,
Lamentation of one with another And breaking of city by city; The dividing of friend against friend,
The severing of brother and brother; Wilt thou utterly bring to an end? Have mercy, mother!
For against all men from of old Thou hast set thine hand as a curse, And cast out gods from their places. These things are spoken of thee. Strong kings and goodly with gold Thou hast found out arrows to pierce, And made their kingdoms and races As dust and surf of the sea.
WHO HATH GIVEN MAN SPEECH
Who hath given man speech? or who hath set therein
A thorn for peril and a snare for sin?
For in the word his life is and his breath,
And in the word his death,
That madness and the infatuate heart may breed From the world's womb the deed
And life bring one thing forth ere all pass by, Even one thing which is ours yet cannot die- Death. Hast thou seen him ever anywhere, Time's twin-born brother, imperishable as he Is perishable and plaintive, clothed with care And mutable as sand,
But death is strong and full of blood and fair And perdurable and like a lord of land?
Nay, time thou seest not, death thou wilt not see
Till life's right hand be loosened from thine hand And thy life-days from thee.
For the gods very subtly fashion Madness with sadness upon earth: Not knowing in any wise compassion, Nor holding pity of any worth;
And many things they have given and taken, And wrought and ruined many things; The firm land have they loosed and shaken, And sealed the sea with all her springs; They have wearied time with heavy burdens And vexed the lips of life with breath: Set men to labour and given them guerdons, Death, and great darkness after death: Put moans into the bridal measure And on the bridal wools a stain;
And circled pain about with pleasure,
And girdled pleasure about with pain; And strewed one marriage-bed with tears and fire For extreme loathing and supreme desire.
What shall be done with all these tears of ours? Shall they make water-springs in the fair heaven To bathe the brows of morning? or like flowers Be shed and shine before the starriest hours,
Or made the raiment of the weeping Seven? Or rather, O our masters, shall they be Food for the famine of the grievous sea, A great well-head of lamentation Satiating the sad gods? or fall and flow Among the years and seasons to and fro, And wash their feet with tribulation And fill them full with grieving ere they go? Alas, our lords, and yet alas again,
Seeing all your iron heaven is gilt as gold But all we smite thereat in vain;
Smite the gates barred with groanings manifold, But all the floors are paven with our pain. Yea, and with weariness of lips and eyes, With breaking of the bosom, and with sighs,
We labour, and are clad and fed with grief And filled with days we would not fain behold And nights we would not hear of; we wax old, All we wax old and wither like leaf.
We are outcast, strayed between bright sun and moon; Our light and darkness are as leaves of flowers, Black flowers and white, that perish; and the noon As midnight, and the night as daylight hours. A little fruit a little while is ours,
And the worm finds it soon.
For death is deep as the sea,
And fate as the waves thereof. Shall the waves take pity on thee
Or the south-wind offer thee love? Wilt thou take the night for thy day Or the darkness for light on thy way, Till thou say in thine heart Enough? Behold, thou art over fair, thou art over wise; The sweetness of spring in thine hair, and the light in
The light of the spring in thine eyes, and the sound in
Yet thine heart shall wax heavy with sighs and thine eyelids with tears.
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