Piero di Cosimo
The National Gallery
AH, foolish Procris !—short and brown
She lies upon the leafy, littoral plain ;
Her scarlet cloak, her veil have both slipped down
And rest
Across her loins ; the naked feet are bound
With sandals of dull gold, their thongs being wide
And interlaced ; the body's swelling side
Crushes the arm ; each sterile breast
Is grey ; upon the throat there is a stain
Of blood and on the hand along the ground.
She gave no mortal cry,
But voiceless and consumed by drouth,
Far from the town she might not gain,
Beside a river-mouth
She dragged herself to die.
Her auburn tresses part or coil
Below a wimple of most sombre blue ;
They fleck the green of the luxuriant soil
Or drift
Thinly athwart the outline of her ear.
Time has been passing since she last drew breath ;
She has the humble, clay-cold look of death
Within the open world ; no rift
Has come between the eyelids, of a hue
Monotonous—a paleness drear.
Her brows attest no thought ;
Her lips, that quick destruction stains,
Shall never kiss her husband, never sue
For pardon : she remains
A quarry none has sought.
And thus she lies half-veiled, half-bare,
Deep in the midst of nature that abides
Inapprehensive she is lying there,
So wan ;
The flowers, the silver estuary afar—
These daisies, plantains, all the white and red
Field-blossoms through the leaves and grasses spread;
The water with its pelican,
Its flight of sails and its blue countrysides—
Unto themselves they are :
The dogs sport on the sand,
The herons curve above the reeds
Or one by one descend the air,
While lifelessly she bleeds
From throat and dabbled hand.
Russet and large against the sky,
Two figures at her head and feet are seen ;
One is a solemn hound, one utterly
A faun,
A creature of wild fashion, with black fell
On which a fleshy, furred ear loops out ;
Under his chin the boorish bristles sprout
Distinct ; an onyx-banded horn
Springs from each temple ; slender legs between
The herbage peep and well-
Fleeced thighs ; his left hand grips
Her shoulder and the right along
Her forehead moves : his mellow eye
Is indecisive ; strong,
Coarse pity swells his lips.
The tall dog's vigil and the gaze
Of the wild man, by eagerness bent low,
Have each a like expression of amaze
And deep,
Respectful yearning : these two watchers pass
Out of themselves, though only to attain
Incomprehensible, half-wakened pain.
They cannot think nor weep
Above this perished jealousy and woe,
This prostrate, human mass ;
But with vague souls they sit
And gaze, while tide and bloom and bird
Live on in their familiar ways,
By mortal grief unstirred
And never sad with it.
Yet autumn comes, there is the light
Born of October's lateness in the sky
And on the sea-side ; leaves have taken flight
From yon,
Slim seedling-birch on the rivage, the flock
Of herons has the quiet of solitude,
That comes when chills on sunny air intrude ;
The little ships must soon be gone,
And soon the pale and ruddy flowers shall die,
Save the untransient plants that block
Their green out, ebon-clear,
Against the distance, while they drop,
On hound and satyr settled nigh,
Red tassels that shall stop
Till windy snows appear.
