English

And here's this shell of a crab,
this implosive symmetry worn
by a long storm of cis-marine light
to a thing white as sea-salt and weightless
as a wasp nest. Two lobes
only—the claws gone
out of their portholes—two
matching lobes left, (and right)
like a brain's … It's amazing

at what minute tolerances something,
though crushed under the sea's grey
palisades of shuddering iron,
details this ineffable cortex—not
to mention others, ashore—
by the billions, and in utter indifference,

TO GOD , ye choir above, begin
A hymn so loud and strong
That all the universe may hear
And join the grateful song.

Praise Him, thou sun, Who dwells unseen
Amidst transcendent light,
Where thy refulgent orb would seem
A spot, as dark as night.

Thou silver moon, ye host of stars,
The universal song
Through the serene and silent night
To listening worlds prolong.

Sing Him, ye distant worlds and suns,
From whence no travelling ray
Hath yet to us, through ages past,
Had time to make its way.

This little worlds two little starres are eyes;
And he that all eyes framed, fram'd all others
Downward to fall, but these to climbe the skies,
There to acquaint them with their starrie brothers;
Planets fixt in the head (their spheare of sense)
Yet wandring still through heav'ns circumference,
The Intellect being their Intelligence.

Dull then that heavie soul, which ever bent
On earth and earthly toyes, his heav'n neglects;
Content with that which cannot give content:
What thy foot scorning kicks, thy soul respects.

Take my heart, Lady, take my heart—
Take it, for it is yours, my sweet,
So yours it is, that 'twere not meet
Another shared its slightest part.

So, yours, if yours it pine and die,
Then yours, all yours, shall be the blame,
And there below, your soul in shame
Shall rue such bitter cruelty.

Were you a savage Scythian's child,
Yet love, that turns the tigers mild,
Would melt you at my sighing.

But you, more cruel-fierce than they,
Have set your will my heart to slay,
And live but through my dying.

L OVE'S infidel
Whom I adore,
You know too well
That I love you more
By a hundred score
Than mine eyes or heart!
So you'd die before
You'd be called “sweet-heart!”

But if I could seem
To set no store
By your esteem,
Then you'd love me more
By a hundred score
Than your eyes or heart,
And almost implore
To be called “sweet-heart!”

“'Tis the way of love
That who loves the best
The least can he move
His Lady's breast.”…
Ah, would I could test

O ye who your lot by Kephisus have found,
Ye who dwell in the land where the swift horse races,
O bright Orchomenus' queens, ye Graces
Who compass the ancient Minyans round
With your guardian arms, O song-renowned,
Now hearken my prayer! By your bounty all pleasure,
All sweet things on menfolk descend in full measure,
All wisdom, all beauty, all fame with its splendour.
'Tis with help that the Graces, the worshipful, render
That the Gods' own dancings and feastings be holden;
Yea, these be dispensers of all things in Heaven.

What man soever hath prospered in winning prizes of high renown
In the Games, or is mighty in wealth, who yet in his spirit crusheth down
Pestilent arrogance, worthy is he to be graced with his townsmen's praise;
For of thee, O Zeus, all excellence cometh that mortal men doth upraise;
And longer abideth their bliss who reverence thee: with the froward-hearted
Through life it abides not, but lo, as a suddenly vanishing dream hath departed.

It beseems that in guerdon of glorious achievement the deeds of the valiant we sing;

Zeus, hurler of thunderbolts tireless-winging,
Most Highest, returneth thy Feast-tide fair
To send me to wed with the lyre subtle-ringing
My song: of the chiefest of all Games singing
To the victor's triumph my witness I bear.
Yea, the hearts of the good are with joy ever leaping
When friends a harvest of triumph are reaping
O Kronos' Son, whose dominion is o'er
Etna, the wind-scourged burden laid
On Typho the demon of heads five-score,
Receive thou this revel-procession arrayed
For a victory won by the Graces' aid.

O Camarina, bright daughter of Ocean, with glad spirit greet
Him who the crown of Olympian achievement and glory most sweet
Brings for his gifts to thee won by his car-team's unwearying feet,

Psaumis! O nurse of a nation, to magnify thee hath he raised
Altars, twin altars twice three, where at feasts of the Blessèd Ones blazed
Steers that were slain; and for five days the goals of the race-course they grazed,

Chariots of horses and mules, and swift coursers. To thee consecrated

Hear, O thou Daughter of Zeus the Deliverer, Fortune the Saver
From peril! Keep watch and ward, I implore,
Over Himera, burg of the far-stretching might; for 'tis by thy favour
That ships be steered to their haven-shore
Over the sea; and torrent-like wars, and council-decisions
Be guided on land. Tossed high, whelmed low
Be the hopes of men, as over a sea of delusive visions
Cleaving the treacherous waves they go.

But through all the years never any of men on the earth abiding
Hath found sure tokens from God to reveal