Hymen — A Reader’s Guide

Produced by Meredith Bach and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.)

+------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in | | this text. For a complete list, please see the bottom of | | this document. | +------------------------------------------------------------+

NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 1921

FOR BRYHER AND PERDITA

_They said: she is high and far and blind in her high pride, but now that my head is bowed in sorrow, I find she is most kind._

_We have taken life, they said, blithely, not groped in a mist for things that are not-- are if you will, but bloodless-- why ask happiness of the dead? and my heart bled._

_Ah, could they know how violets throw strange fire, red and purple and gold, how they glow gold and purple and red where her feet tread._

Acknowledgements are due to the editors of the following periodicals in which certain of these poems have appeared: _Poetry_ (Chicago), _The Dial_, _Contact_ and _The Bookman_ (New York), _The Nation_, _The Sphere_, _The Anglo-French Review_ and _The Egoist_ (London).

HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES 24

WHY HAVE YOU SOUGHT 36

THE WHOLE WHITE WORLD 37

SHE CONTRASTS WITH HERSELF HIPPOLYTA 40

SHE REBUKES HIPPOLYTA 42

_As from a temple service, tall and dignified, with slow pace, each a queen, the sixteen matrons from the temple of Hera pass before the curtain--a dark purple hung between Ionic columns--of the porch or open hall of a palace. Their hair is bound as the marble hair of the temple Hera. Each wears a crown or diadem of gold._

_They sing--the music is temple music, deep, simple, chanting notes:_

From the closed garden Where our feet pace Back and forth each day, This gladiolus white, This red, this purple spray-- Gladiolus tall with dignity As yours, lady--we lay Before your feet and pray:

Of all the blessings-- Youth, joy, ecstasy-- May one gift last (As the tall gladiolus may Outlast the wind-flower, Winter-rose or rose), One gift above, Encompassing all those;

For her, for him, For all within these palace walls, Beyond the feast, Beyond the cry of Hymen and the torch, Beyond the night and music Echoing through the porch till day.

_The music, with its deep chanting notes, dies away. The curtain hangs motionless in rich, full folds. Then from this background of darkness, dignity and solemn repose, a flute gradually detaches itself, becomes clearer and clearer, pipes alone one shrill, simple little melody._

_From the distance, four children's voices blend with the flute, and four very little girls pass singly before the curtain, small maids or attendants of the sixteen matrons. Their hair is short and curls at the back of their heads like the hair of the chryselephantine Hermes. They sing:_

Where the first crocus buds unfold We found these petals near the cold Swift river-bed.

Beneath the rocks where ivy-frond Puts forth new leaves to gleam beyond Those lately dead:

The very smallest two or three Of gold (gold pale as ivory) We gatherèd.

_When the little girls have passed before the curtain, a wood-wind weaves a richer note into the flute melody; then the two blend into one song. But as the wood-wind grows in mellowness and richness, the flute gradually dies away into a secondary theme and the wood-wind alone evolves the melody of a new song._

_Two by two--like two sets of medallions with twin profiles distinct, one head slightly higher, bent forward a little--the four figures of four slight, rather fragile taller children, are outlined with sharp white contour against the curtain._

_The hair is smooth against the heads, falling to the shoulders but slightly waved against the nape of the neck. They are looking down, each at a spray of winter-rose. The tunics fall to the knees in sharp marble folds. They sing:_

Never more will the wind Cherish you again, Never more will the rain.

Never more Shall we find you bright In the snow and wind.

The snow is melted, The snow is gone, And you are flown:

Like a bird out of our hand, Like a light out of our heart, You are gone.

_As the wistful notes of the wood-wind gradually die away, there comes a sudden, shrill, swift piping._