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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408364" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ogyges</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Stand out, swift-footed leaders of the horns,<br>And draw strong breath, and fill the hollowy cliff<br>With shocks of clamour, — let the chasm take<br>The noise of many trumpets, lest the hunt<br>Should die across the dim Aonian hills,<br>Nor break through thunder and the surf-white cave<br>That hems about the old-eyed Ogyges<br>And bars the sea-wind, rain-wind, and the sea!<br>Much fierce delight hath old-eyed Ogyges<br>(A hairless shadow in a lion’s skin)<br>In tumult, and the gleam of flying spears,<br>And wild beasts vexed to death; “for,” sayeth he,<br>“Here lying broken, do I count the days<br>For every trouble; being like the tree —<br>The many-wintered father of the trunks<br>On yonder ridges: wherefore it is well<br>To feel the dead blood kindling in my veins<br>At sound of boar or battle; yea to find<br>A sudden stir, like life, about my feet,<br>And tingling pulses through this frame of mine<br>What time the cold clear dayspring, like a bird<br>Afar off, settles on the frost-bound peaks,<br>And all the deep blue gorges, darkening down,<br>Are filled with men and dogs and furious dust!”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So in the time whereof thou weetest well —<br>The melancholy morning of the World —<br>He mopes or mumbles, sleeps or shouts for glee,<br>And shakes his sides — a cavern-hutted King!<br>But when the ouzel in the gaps at eve<br>Doth pipe her dreary ditty to the surge<br>All tumbling in the soft green level light,<br>He sits as quiet as a thick-mossed rock,<br>And dreameth in his cold old savage way<br>Of gliding barges on the wine-dark waves,<br>And glowing shapes, and sweeter things than sleep,<br>But chiefly, while the restless twofold bat<br>Goes flapping round the rainy eaves above,<br>Where one broad opening letteth in the moon,<br>He starteth, thinking of that grey-haired man,<br>His sire: then oftentimes the white-armed child<br>Of thunder-bearing Jove, young Thebe, comes<br>And droops above him with her short sweet sighs<br>For Love distraught — for dear Love’s faded sake<br>That weeps and sings and weeps itself to death<br>Because of casual eyes, and lips of frost,<br>And careless mutterings, and most weary years.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Bethink you, doth the wan Egyptian count<br>This passion, wasting like an unfed flame,<br>Of any worth now; seeing that his thighs<br>Are shrunken to a span and that the blood,<br>Which used to spin tumultuous down his sides<br>Of life in leaping moments of desire,<br>Is drying like a thin and sluggish stream<br>In withered channels — think you, doth he pause<br>For golden Thebe and her red young mouth?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah, golden Thebe — Thebe, weeping there,<br>Like some sweet wood-nymph wailing for a rock,<br>If Octis with the Apollonian face —<br>That fair-haired prophet of the sun and stars —<br>Could take a mist and dip it in the West<br>To clothe thy limbs of shine about with shine<br>And all the wonder of the amethyst,<br>He’d do it — kneeling like a slave for thee!<br>If he could find a dream to comfort thee,<br>He’d bring it: thinking little of his lore,<br>But marvelling greatly at those eyes of thine.<br>Yea, if the Shepherd waiting for thy steps,<br>Pent down amongst the dank black-weeded rims,<br>Could shed his life like rain about thy feet,<br>He’d count it sweetness past all sweets of love<br>To die by thee — his life’s end in thy sight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, but he loves the hunt, doth Ogyges!<br>And therefore should we blow the horn for him:<br>He, sitting mumbling in his surf-white cave<br>With helpless feet and alienated eyes,<br>Should hear the noises nathless dawn by dawn<br>Which send him wandering swiftly through the days<br>When like a springing cataract he leapt<br>From crag to crag, the strongest in the chase<br>To spear the lion, leopard, or the boar!<br>Oh, but he loves the hunt; and, while the shouts<br>Of mighty winds are in this mountained World,<br>Behold the white bleak woodman, Winter, halts<br>And bends to him across a beard of snow<br>For wonder; seeing Summer in his looks<br>Because of dogs and calls from throats of hair<br>All in the savage hills of Hyria!<br>And, through the yellow evenings of the year,<br>What time September shows her mooned front<br>And poppies burnt to blackness droop for drouth,<br>The dear Demeter, splashed from heel to thigh<br>With spinning vine-blood, often stoops to him<br>To crush the grape against his wrinkled lips<br>Which sets him dreaming of the thickening wolves<br>In darkness, and the sound of moaning seas.<br>So with the blustering tempest doth he find<br>A stormy fellowship: for when the North<br>Comes reeling downwards with a breath like spears,<br>Where Dryope the lonely sits all night<br>And holds her sorrow crushed betwixt her palms,<br>He thinketh mostly of that time of times<br>When Zeus the Thunderer — broadly-blazing King —<br>Like some wild comet beautiful but fierce,<br>Leapt out of cloud and fire and smote the tops<br>Of black Ogygia with his red right hand,<br>At which great fragments tumbled to the Deeps —<br>The mighty fragments of a mountain-land —<br>And all the World became an awful Sea!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But, being tired, the hairless Ogyges<br>Best loveth night and dim forgetfulness!<br>“For,” sayeth he, “to look for sleep is good<br>When every sleep is as a sleep of death<br>To men who live, yet know not why they live,<br>Nor how they live! I have no thought to tell<br>The people when this time of mine began;<br>But forest after forest grows and falls,<br>And rock by rock is wasted with the rime,<br>While I sit on and wait the end of all;<br>Here taking every footstep for a sign;<br>An ancient shadow whiter than the foam!”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Kendall">Henry Kendall</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408364" data-title="Ogyges de Henry Kendall" data-description="Stand out, swift-footed leaders of the horns,
And draw strong breath, and fill the hollowy cliff
With shocks of clamour, — let the chasm take
The noise of many trumpets, lest the hunt
Should die across the dim Aonian hills,
Nor break through thu..."></div>
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