Oh Goddess! Hear these awkward lines, wrung
By sweet memory’s force and fond reflection,
Pardon that your secrets I have sung
Even to your tender ear’s direction:
Perchance today was but a dream, or did I spy
The winged Psyche with wide-open eye?
Through a forest I wandered, lost in reverie,
Then suddenly, struck with surprise,
I beheld two figures, side by side they lie
In deep grass, under the whispering trees
Of leaves and blooms that softly sigh,
Beside a brooklet, scarcely seen:
Among hushed, fragrant flowers, with eyes of blue,
Silver-white, budding Tyrian hue,
They rest serenely on the grass;
Their arms entwined, and wings too;
Their lips not meeting, yet no farewell,
As if parted by gentle slumber’s spell,
Yet poised to share countless kisses
At the tender dawn of love’s golden bliss:
The winged girl I knew, but who are you,
O fortunate dove, her true Psyche too!
Oh most recently born and lovely vision,
Surpassing all Olympus’ old dominion!
Fairer than Phoebe’s starry height,
Or Vesper, sky’s enamored light;
Fairer than these, though without shrine,
Nor altar decked with flowers fine;
No choir of maidens to sing through the night,
No voice, no lyre, no flute, no fragrant smoke,
From censer swung in rhythmic stroke;
No sacred grove, no oracle’s sight,
No dreams of seers in the pale moon’s light.
Oh brightest one! Though late for ancient rites,
Too late for the lyre’s devoted flights,
When forest boughs were deemed sacred,
And air, water, fire, held holy:
Yet in these days, far from joyful cries,
Your radiant wings among fading deities,
I see and sing, inspired by my own sight.
So let me be your chorus, and lament
Through the quiet hours of night;
Your voice, your lyre, your flute, your sweet incense,
From the swinging censer’s dance;
Your sacred space, grove, prophecy’s essence,
Divine dreams seen through the seer’s glance.
Yes, I’ll be your priest, and raise a shrine
In my mind’s unexplored deeps,
Where thoughts, newly formed with pleasant pain,
Murmur like pines in gentle breeze;
Far and wide, dark-clustered trees
Adorn the steep, rugged peaks;
There, amidst breezes, streams, birds, and bees,
The moss-clad Dryads find peaceful sleep;
In this vast stillness, a rosy sanctuary blooms,
Woven with the lattice of creative mind’s looms,
With buds, bells, and nameless stars that gleam,
Imaginary blooms of fanciful dreams,
Each cultivated, yet never the same;
All the gentle pleasures of elusive thought,
For you to cherish and claim,
With a bright torch and a window left unbarred,
To welcome warm Love’s flame!
:: 04.10.2024 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 