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.