  THE PRAYERLike a cat beside a pool More than half afraid of it, Fishing gingerly I sit Here beside this pool of wit— Dumb as any fool! Chirrups humor in the grass; Winds of tickling laughter pass, And the world grows wise forsooth, Lets gleam amused tooth Seeing in this water-glass Jests that swim the depths of truth, And like fins of fishes shiver It to fretful quirk and quiver. Ripples break and bubbles rise Catching smiles from out the skies In their globed eyes. Surely, surely there was never Such a pleasant river! Only I am out of tune Like an icicle in June, Or a monster from the moon. Dionysus, hear my prayer! Spreading arms to the mute air, I entreat thee, fashion me One with this gay company, One in mirth and one in song Dartling their minds among. Loosener of lips and heart, Draw my sullen mouth apart. Give a gleam to guide me by As a phare in a night-sky— Grace of tongue and warmth of eye; Give me of thy fire and dew; Give me flash of mimic art— Spice of Godhead in this brew To pierce my fellows thru and thru. Oh, thou vintal Deity, Loose my limbs that they may fly With this reckless revelry! Sick of sober ways am I; In this tumult I alone Am a satyr turned to stone; Satyr—satyr—not a man! Gifts I ask not of Apollo— Wine is good and grief is hollow; I would follow after Pan; I would follow, follow, follow After Pan! Or if he wander ways too quiet, Shepherd ways of warmth and ease, Let me taste a wilder riot In thy mysteries— Let me quaff it, laugh it, cry it! Give me, give me, give me these— Fleet foot after those that flee, Hot veins amorous to seize Maenads maddened by the wine, Wound with hair and wreathed with vine, Maenads stained with purple lees— Give me, give me, give me these. Only this I ask of thee Dionysus, Dionysus, son of Semele! THE ANSWERLo! the God of purple pleasure Heard and hearkened to his prayer, Reft the swathed bands that bound him, From his cloak of Self unwound him, Filled him with supernal seizure That his humor’s jewelled treasure Leaped and sparkled in the air— Till the night was bright around him. Never such a jestful fit Dreamt he in his wildest wishes! Never from the pool of wit Had he drawn such shining fishes! Humid flame glowed in each eye And his face had changed its vesture, And his arms moved with strange gesture Apt in every mimicry. With the spell of Fire and Dew He pierced his fellows thru and thru. Surely Dithyrambus pressed him! Surely the Great God possessed him! And the mystic sisters too, Oeno, Spermo, and Elais, (Who knoweth what their way is?) Surely they caressed him! He whose tongue of old was frozen— As he quaffs, with this potation Deep and deeper inspiration Seems to grow a Prophet—chosen, For he speaks by divination! Never were such fancies woven From the carded thoughts of mortal. Some are mazed, and some deride him, “Lo, his wits have gone astray, What a fool he is!” they say. Others whisper (those beside him) “He hath crossed another portal— He is one whose foot is cloven. Do ye hear wild creatures beat Lifted hoof and naked feet On the quiet woodland sod? Do ye mark what mood that strain is? Hints it not the Shepherd God With his pipings shrill and sweet— Snubnose, Sweetwine, old Silenus, All his creatures shy and fleet?” Deeper, deeper, Fire and Dew Drains he of the Wine-God’s brew Craving furthest essence—thus Heareth now another voice Terrible and new, Luring—appalling, “Iachus! Iachus! Iachus! Wine! Wine! Wine! Rejoice!” Thru the forest calling. And the sky is red and golden And the red, red stars are falling, Falling to the earth in showers. And the fresh blood-scents embolden Gold and sable leopards, sleeping, To come crawling, writhing, leaping, Over gold and purple flowers. And the autumn sun is swollen With the sweetness he has stolen From the wine, and he is wine, wine-red. Come ye now with wreathed head, Come ye now With ivy bound on your white brow, And forgotten, forgotten be the hours! Forgotten and forgotten! Ah the night has fled away, And the wine is spilt, and the stars are gray, For the old cold dawn abashes All the torches turned to ashes, But the feasters—where are they? Fled, the sound of pipes at last; Fled, the panting, goat- And the maenad rout have passed, And the echoes caught and cast Died where they began. Never, never, never A more sombre river From such springs of laughter ran! And the lucid pool of wit— What a scum has clouded it! Past each stately Parian column Day comes, gaunt and pale and shrunken And her step is very solemn. On the veined marble sunken, Reft of breath of Deity, Prone there, lies the Priest—the Chosen, Huddled, bestial, bleared and drunken— Like a body that is frozen (That such things should be!) Shape of shapeless mockery He had tasted all one can; He had heard the pipes of Pan; He had followed in thy van Dionysus, Dionysus, son of Semele— Satyr?—not a satyr he—a man! |
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