LXVI
Καμ μὲν τετύλαν κασπολέω·
WE sat and chatted at our ease
Upon a wayside tomb,
When from a little grove of trees
Came Gorgo in her bloom :
Her head against my knee she prest,
And seemed to listen to the rest,
Then, looking up, said straight to me —
" Phaon is gone to Sicily."
Scarcely her insult might I hear,
For little Atthis spoke—
" A gourd ! The fruit-seller is near,
O Gorgo." And they broke
Away. I looked across the town ;
Ere I could set the cushion down
At home, and sob out all my woe,
How very far I had to go !
Gone ! Is he gone ? Persephone,
Leave him not lips that kiss !
Swift! draw him earthward down to thee,
Where he may mourn and miss
The fluttering motion of his boat,
The joy of the free life afloat,
And stretch ungrasping hands to reach
Eunica's figure on the beach.
Ah fool, to think love's pain could leap
Through bloodless shadows cold !
I set the pillow down, and deep
In its striped, wrinkling fold
Pour out my rage ; while he to-night
Leans, softly-cushioned for delight,
And, with the wine-cup in his hand,
Turns some gay singer to command.
Apollo, thou alone can'st bring
To Phaon's feeble breast
The fire unquenchable, the sting,
Love's agony, love's zest.
Thou need'st not curse him nor transform ;
Give him the poet's heart of storm
To suffer as I suffer, thus
Abandoned, vengeful, covetous.
