Antiope

Image: Correggio; Venus, Cupid and a Satyr (formerly entitled Jupiter and Antiope)(ca. 1524-1527). Oil on canvas. 188 x 125 cm. © The Louvre Museum, Paris, 1665. 1st Floor: Room 8 http://www.louvre.fr/en/oeuvre-notices/venus-satyr-and-cupid, 5 August 2015.

Correggio

The Louvre
 

NOONTIDE'S whiteness of full sun 
Illumes her sleep ; 
Its heat is on her limbs and one 
White arm with sweep 
Of languor falls around her head : 
She cuddles on the lap of earth ; 
While almost dead 
Asleep, forgetful of his mirth, 
A dimpled Cupid at her side 
Sprawls satisfied. 

Conquered, weary with the light, 
Her eyelids orb : 
Summer's plenitude of might 
Her lips absorb,— 
Uplifted to the burning air 
And with repletion fallen apart. 
Her form is bare, 
But her doe-skin binds each dart 
Of her woodland armory, 
Laid idle by. 

She is curled beyond the rim 
Of oaks that slide 
Their lowest branches, long and slim, 
Close to her side ; 
Their foliage touches her with lobes 
Half-gay, half-shadowed, green and brown : 
Her white throat globes, 
Thrown backward, and her breasts sink down 
With the supineness of her sleep, 
Leaf-fringed and deep. 

Where her hand has curved to slip 
Across a bough, 
Fledged Cupid's slumberous fingers grip 
The turf and how 
Close to his chin he hugs her cloak ! 
His torch reversed trails on the ground 
With feeble smoke ; 
For in noon's chastity profound, 
In the blank glare of mid-day skies, 
Love's flambeau dies. 

But the sleepers are not left 
To breathe alone ; 
A god is by with hoofs deep-cleft, 
Legs overgrown 
With a rough pelt and body strong : 
Yet must the head and piercing eyes 
In truth belong 
To some Olympian in disguise ; 
From lawless shape or mien unkempt 
They are exempt. 

Zeus, beneath these oaken boughs, 
As satyr keeps 
His watch above the woman's brows 
And backward sweeps 
Her cloak to flood her with the noon ; 
Curious and fond, yet by a clear 
Joy in the boon 
Of beauty franchised—beauty dear 
To him as to a tree's bent mass 
The sunny grass. 

 

 

Correggio

The Louvre
 

NOONTIDE'S whiteness of full sun 
Illumes her sleep ; 
Its heat is on her limbs and one 
White arm with sweep 
Of languor falls around her head : 
She cuddles on the lap of earth ; 
While almost dead 
Asleep, forgetful of his mirth, 
A dimpled Cupid at her side 
Sprawls satisfied. 

Conquered, weary with the light, 
Her eyelids orb : 
Summer's plenitude of might 
Her lips absorb,— 
Uplifted to the burning air 
And with repletion fallen apart. 
Her form is bare, 
But her doe-skin binds each dart 
Of her woodland armory, 
Laid idle by. 

She is curled beyond the rim 
Of oaks that slide 
Their lowest branches, long and slim, 
Close to her side ; 
Their foliage touches her with lobes 
Half-gay, half-shadowed, green and brown : 
Her white throat globes, 
Thrown backward, and her breasts sink down 
With the supineness of her sleep, 
Leaf-fringed and deep. 

Where her hand has curved to slip 
Across a bough, 
Fledged Cupid's slumberous fingers grip 
The turf and how 
Close to his chin he hugs her cloak ! 
His torch reversed trails on the ground 
With feeble smoke ; 
For in noon's chastity profound, 
In the blank glare of mid-day skies, 
Love's flambeau dies. 

But the sleepers are not left 
To breathe alone ; 
A god is by with hoofs deep-cleft, 
Legs overgrown 
With a rough pelt and body strong : 
Yet must the head and piercing eyes 
In truth belong 
To some Olympian in disguise ; 
From lawless shape or mien unkempt 
They are exempt. 

Zeus, beneath these oaken boughs, 
As satyr keeps 
His watch above the woman's brows 
And backward sweeps 
Her cloak to flood her with the noon ; 
Curious and fond, yet by a clear 
Joy in the boon 
Of beauty franchised—beauty dear 
To him as to a tree's bent mass 
The sunny grass.