Artemis
The thirteenth returns.
The thirteenth returns.
19th Century French Poetry
.
.
.
Do you know it, the Temple with vast peristyle,
And the lemons, bitter, marked by your teeth,
And the grotto fatal to imprudent guests,
Where the vanquished dragon's ancient seed sleeps? . . .
Those gods you endlessly weep will return!
Time bring back the order of classic days;
Earth has shuddered with prophetic breath. . .
Yet the sibyl with Latinate face still sleeps
Under the arch of Constantine
- And the austere portico nothing disturbs.
Note: There are references to a visit to the Temple of Isis at Pompeii with an English girl, Octavia (who tasted a lemon), and to the Temple of the Sibyl at Tivoli. Constantine's Arch is in Rome. Condensed mythological references abound.
Artemis
The thirteenth returns. . . She's forever the first;
And always the sole one - or the sole instant;
For are you queen, O you, the first or the last?
Are you king, you the sole or the last lover? . . .
Love him who loved you from cradle to bier;
She I alone loved still loves me tenderly:
She is death - or the dead one. . . O joy! O torment!
The rose she holds is the Rose tremiere.
Neapolitan saint with your hands full of fire,
Rose with violet heart, Saint Gudula's flower:
Have you found your cross in the desert of heaven?
White roses: fall!
Do you know it, the Temple with vast peristyle,
And the lemons, bitter, marked by your teeth,
And the grotto fatal to imprudent guests,
Where the vanquished dragon's ancient seed sleeps? . . .
Those gods you endlessly weep will return!
Time bring back the order of classic days;
Earth has shuddered with prophetic breath. . .
Yet the sibyl with Latinate face still sleeps
Under the arch of Constantine
- And the austere portico nothing disturbs.
Note: There are references to a visit to the Temple of Isis at Pompeii with an English girl, Octavia (who tasted a lemon), and to the Temple of the Sibyl at Tivoli. Constantine's Arch is in Rome. Condensed mythological references abound.
Artemis
The thirteenth returns. . . She's forever the first;
And always the sole one - or the sole instant;
For are you queen, O you, the first or the last?
Are you king, you the sole or the last lover? . . .
Love him who loved you from cradle to bier;
She I alone loved still loves me tenderly:
She is death - or the dead one. . . O joy! O torment!
The rose she holds is the Rose tremiere.
Neapolitan saint with your hands full of fire,
Rose with violet heart, Saint Gudula's flower:
Have you found your cross in the desert of heaven?
White roses: fall!
