  I would bring them again unto you, The gods with broad and placid brows; And for you have I wrought their images Of carven ivory and gold; That your lips may be shaped to praise them, And your praises be laughter and all delights of the body, Dancing and exultation, a dance of torches In scarlet sandals, with burnished targes: A dance of boys by the wine-press Naked, with must-stained purple thighs: Of young girls by the river in saffron vesture Dancing to smitten strings and reed flutes. Praise then mine images: Helios; Artemis, With a leash of straining hounds: and the Foam-born. With the fluttering of doves and dreams about her And, softer than silk, Hephaistos’ golden net. Lo, Bacchus and his painted beasts! Praise ye mine images! A dryad whom clinging ivy holds while laughs The swarthy centaur pursuing; and a troop Of small Pans delicate and deformed. Yet your lips praise not, Crying: We too would be deathless as these are, We, the hunted! But dance and adore them, Praise my sweet grave gods of the blue, and the earth-born! Praise their strong grace and swiftness! For in these gods mine hands have wrought, In these alone are ye deathless. |
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