Poems (Sill)/The Venus of Milo
HERE fell a vision to PraxitelesWatching thro' drowsy lids the loitering seasThat lay caressing with white arms of foamThe sleeping marge of his Ionian home,He saw great Aphrodite standing near,Knew her, at last, the Beautiful he had soughtWith life-long passion, and in love and fearInto unsullied stone the vision wrought.
POEMS
BY
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL
THE VENUS OF MILO.
HERE fell a vision to PraxitelesWatching thro' drowsy lids the loitering seasThat lay caressing with white arms of foamThe sleeping marge of his Ionian home,He saw great Aphrodite standing near,Knew her, at last, the Beautiful he had soughtWith life-long passion, and in love and fearInto unsullied stone the vision wrought. Far other was the form that Cnidos gaveTo senile Rome, no longer free or brave,— The Medicean, naked like a slave.The Cnidians built her shrineOf creamy ivory fine;Most costly was the floorOf scented cedar, and from doorWas looped to carven doorRich stuff of Tyrian purple, in whose shadeHer glistening shoulders and round limbs outshone,Milk-white as lilies in a summer moon.Here honey-hearted Greece to worship came,And on her altar leaped a turbid flame,The quickened blood ran dancing to its doom,And lip sought trembling lip in that rich gloom.
But the island people of Cos, by the salt mainFrom Persia's touch kept clean,Chose for their purer shrine amid the seasThat grander vision of Praxiteles. Long ages after, sunken in the groundOf sea-girt Melos, wondering shepherds foundThe marred and dinted copy which men nameVenus of Milo, saved to endless fame.
Before the broken marble, on a day,There came a worshiper: a slanted rayStruck in across the dimness of her shrineAnd touched her face as to a smile divine;For it was like the worship of a GreekAt her old altar. Thus I heard him speak:—
Men call thee Love: is there no holier nameThan hers, the foam-born, laughter-loving dame?Nay, for there is than love no holier name:All words that pass the lips of mortal menWith inner and with outer meaning shine;An outer gleam that meets the common ken, An inner light that but the few divine.Thou art the love celestial, seeking stillThe soul beneath the form; the serene will;The wisdom, of whose deeps the sages dream;The unseen beauty that doth faintly gleamIn stars, and flowers, and waters where they roll;The unheard music whose faint echoes evenMake whosoever hears a homesick soulThereafter, till he follow it to heaven.
Larger than mortal woman I see thee stand,With beautiful head bent forward steadily,As if those earnest eyes could seeSome glorious thing far off, to which thy handInvisibly stretched onward seems to be.From thy white forehead's breadth of calm, the hair Sweeps lightly, as a cloud in windless air.Placid thy brows, as that still line at dawnWhere the dim hills along the sky are drawn,When the last stars are drowned in deeps afar.Thy quiet mouth—I know not if it smile,Or if in some wise pity thou wilt weep,—Little as one may tell, some summer morn,Whether the dreamy brightness is most glad,Or wonderfully sad,—So bright, so still thy lips serenely sleep;So fixedly thine earnest eyes the while,As clear and steady as the morning star,Their gaze upon that coming glory keep.
Thy garment's fallen foldsLeave beautiful the fair, round breastIn sacred loveliness; the bosom deepWhere happy babe might sleep;The ample waist no narrowing girdle holds, Where daughters slim might come to cling and rest,Like tendriled vines against the plane-tree pressed.Around thy firm, large limbs and steady feetThe robes slope downward, as the folded hillsSlope round the mountain's knees, when shadow fillsThe hollow cañons, and the wind is sweetFrom russet oat-fields and the ripening wheat.
From our low world no gods have taken wing;Even now upon our hills the twain are wandering;The Medicean's sly and servile grace,And the immortal beauty of thy face.One is the spirit of all short-lived loveAnd outward, earthly loveliness:The tremulous rosy morn is her mouth's smile, The sky her laughing azure eyes above;And, waiting for caress,Lie bare the soft hill-slopes, the whileHer thrilling voice is heardIn song of wind and wave, and every flitting bird.Not plainly, never quite herself she shows;Just a swift glance of her illumined smileAlong the landscape goes;Just a soft hint of singing, to beguileA man from all his toil;Some vanished gleam of beckoning arm, to spoilA morning's task with longing wild and vain.Then if across the parching plainHe seek her, she with passion burnsHis heart to fever, and he hearsThe west wind's mocking laughter when he turns,Shivering in mist of ocean's sullen tears.It is the Medicean: well I knowThe arts her ancient subtlety will show; The stubble-field she turns to ruddy gold;The empty distance she will foldIn purple gauze: the warm glow she has kissedAlong the chilling mist:Cheating and cheated love that grows to hateAnd ever deeper loathing, soon or late.
Thou, too, O fairer spirit, walkest hereUpon the lifted hills:Wherever that still thought within the breastThe inner beauty of the world hath moved;In starlight that the dome of evening fills;On endless waters rounding to the west:For them who thro' that beauty's veil have lovedThe soul of all things beautiful the best.For lying broad awake, long ere the dawn,Staring against the dark, the blank of spaceOpens immeasurably, and thy face Wavers and glimmers there and is withdrawn.And many days, when all one's work is vain,And life goes stretching on, a waste gray plain,With even the short mirage of morning gone,No cool breath anywhere, no shadow nighWhere a weary man might lay him down and die,Lo! thou art there before me suddenly,With shade as if a summer cloud did pass,And spray of fountains whispering to the grass.Oh, save me from the haste and noise and heatThat spoil life's music sweet:And from that lesser Aphrodite there—Even now she standsClose as I turn, and, O my soul, how fair!Nay, I will heed not thy white beckoning hands, Nor thy soft lips like the curled inner leafIn a rosebud's breast, kissed languid by the sun,Nor eyes like liquid gleams where waters run.Yea, thou art beautiful as morn;And even as I draw nighTo scoff, I own the loveliness I scorn.Farewell, for thou hast lost me: keep thy trainOf worshipers; me thou dost lure in vain:The inner passion, pure as very fire,Burns to light ash the earthlier desire.
O greater Aphrodite, unto theeLet me not say farewell. What would Earth beWithout thy presence? Surely unto meA life-long weariness, a dull, bad dream.Abide with me, and let thy calm brows beamFresh hope upon me every amber dawn,New peace when evening's violet veil is drawn. Then, tho' I see along the glooming plainThe Medicean's waving hand again,And white feet glimmering in the harvest-field,I shall not turn, nor yield;But as heaven deepens, and the Cross and LyreLift up their stars beneath the Northern Crown,Unto the yearning of the world's desireI shall be 'ware of answer coming down;And something, when my heart the darkness stills,Shall tell me, without sound or any sight,That other footsteps are upon the hills;Till the dim earth is luminous with the lightOf the white dawn, from some far-hidden shore,That shines upon thy forehead evermore.