  Men of Eleusis, ye that with long staves Sit in the market-houses, and speak words Made sweet with wisdom as the rare wine is Thickened with honey; and ye sons of these Who in the glad thick streets go up and down For pastime or grave traffic or mere chance; And all fair women having rings of gold On hands or hair; and chiefest over these I name you, daughters of this man the king, Who dipping deep smooth pitchers of pure brass Under the bubbled wells, till each round lip Stooped with loose gurgle of waters incoming, Found me an old sick woman, lamed and lean, Beside a growth of builded olive-boughs Whence multiplied thick song of thick-plumed throats— Also wet tears filled up my hollow hands By reason of my crying into them— And pitied me; for as cold water ran And washed the pitchers full from lip to lip, So washed both eyes full the strong salt of tears. And ye put water to my mouth, made sweet With brown hill-berries; so in time I spoke And gathered my loose knees from under me. Moreover in the broad fair halls this month Have I found space and bountiful abode To please me. I Demeter speak of this, Who am the mother and the mate of things: For as ill men by drugs or singing words Shut the doors inward of the narrowed womb Like a lock bolted with round iron through, Thus I shut up the body and sweet mouth Of all soft pasture and the tender land, So that no seed can enter in by it Though one sow thickly, nor some grain get out Past the hard clods men cleave and bite with steel To widen the sealed lips of them for use. None of you is there in the peopled street But knows how all the dry-drawn furrows ache With no green spot made count of in the black: How the wind finds no comfortable grass Nor is assuaged with bud nor breath of herbs; And in hot autumn when ye house the stacks, All fields are helpless in the sun, all trees Stand as a man stripped out of all but skin. Nevertheless ye sick have help to get By means and stablished ordinance of God; For God is wiser than a good man is. But never shall new grass be sweet in earth Till I get righted of my wound and wrong By changing counsel of ill-minded Zeus. For of all other gods is none save me Clothed with like power to build and break the year. I make the lesser green begin, when spring Touches not earth but with one fearful foot; And as a careful gilder with grave art Soberly colours and completes the face, Mouth, chin and all, of some sweet work in stone, I carve the shapes of grass and tender corn And colour the ripe edges and long spikes With the red increase and the grace of gold, No tradesman in soft wools is cunninger To kill the secret of the fat white fleece With stains of blue and purple wrought in it. Three moons were made and three moons burnt away While I held journey hither out of Crete Comfortless, tended by grave Hecate Whom my wound stung with double iron point; For all my face was like a cloth wrung out With close and weeping wrinkles, and both lids Sodden with salt continuance of tears. For Hades and the sidelong will of Zeus And that lame wisdom that has writhen feet, Cunning, begotten in the bed of Shame, These three took evil will at me, and made Such counsel that when time got wing to fly This Hades out of summer and low fields Forced the bright body of Persephone: Out of pure grass, where she lying down, red flowers Made their sharp little shadows on her sides, Pale heat, pale colour on pale maiden flesh— And chill water slid over her reddening feet, Killing the throbs in their soft blood; and birds, Perched next her elbow and pecking at her hair, Stretched their necks more to see her than even to sing. A sharp thing is it I have need to say; For Hades holding both white wrists of hers Unloosed the girdle and with knot by knot Bound her between his wheels upon the seat, Bound her pure body, holiest yet and dear To me and God as always, clothed about With blossoms loosened as her knees went down. Let fall as she let go of this and this By tens and twenties, tumbled to her feet, White waifs or purple of the pasturage. Therefore with only going up and down My feet were wasted, and the gracious air, To me discomfortable and dun, became As weak smoke blowing in the under world. And finding in the process of ill days What part had Zeus herein, and how as mate He coped with Hades, yokefellow in sin, I set my lips against the meat of gods And drank not neither ate or slept in heaven. Nor in the golden greeting of their mouths Did ear take note of me, nor eye at all Track my feet going in the ways of them. Like a great fire on some strait slip of land Between two washing inlets of wet sea That burns the grass up to each lip of beach And strengthens, waxing in the growth of wind, So burnt my soul in me at heaven and earth, Each way a ruin and a hungry plague, Visible evil; nor could any night Put cool between mine eyelids, nor the sun With competence of gold fill out my want. Yea so my flame burnt up the grass and stones, Shone to the salt-white edges of thin sea, Distempered all the gracious work, and made Sick change, unseasonable increase of days And scant avail of seasons; for by this The fair gods faint in hollow heaven: there comes No taste of burnings of the twofold fat To leave their palates smooth, nor in their lips Soft rings of smoke and weak scent wandering; |
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