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I thirsted for the brooks, the showers:
I crushed them on my breast, my mouth:
Last night, when some one spoke his name,
Before he mounts the hill, I know
He cometh quickly: from below
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow
Before him, striking on my brow.
The wind sounds like a silver wire, And from beyond the noon a fire Is poured upon the hills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire;
My whole soul waiting silently,
I will grow round him in his place,
Grow, live, die looking on his face,
There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier
Hither came at noon
w O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida,
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love,
"O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida,
"O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. I waited underneath the dawning hills, Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, And dewy-dark aloft the mountain-pine: Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jet-black goat white-horned, white-hooved, Came up from reedy Simois all alone.
"O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Far-ofT the torrent called me from the cleft: Far up the solitary morning smote The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes, I sat alone: white breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin Drooped from his shoulder, but his sunny hair Clustered about his temples like a God's; And his cheek brightened as the foam-bow brightens When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came.
"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm
Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold,
"' My own CEnone, Beautiful-browed CEnone, my own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind engraven "For the most fair," would seem to award it thine, As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement, and the charm of married brows.'
"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, And added, ' This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the Gods Hanged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due: But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, Delivering that to me, by common voice Elected umpire, Here comes to-day Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods/
"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piney sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose, And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, This way and that, in many a wild festoon
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled houghs With bunch and berry and flower through and through.
"O mother Ida, harken ere I die. On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, And o'er him flowed a golden cloud, and leaned Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom Coming through Heaven, like a light that grows Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made Proffer of royal power, ample rule Unquestioned, overflowing revenue Wherewith to embellish state, ' from many a vale And river-sundered champaign clothed with corn. Or labored mines, undrainable of ore. Honor,' she said, ' and homage, tax and toll, From many an inland town and haven large, Mast-thronged beneath her shadowing citadel In glassy bays among her tallest towers.'
"O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Still she spake on, and still she spake of power, 'Which in all action is the end of all; Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred And throned of wisdom—from all neighbor crowns Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me, From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, A shepherd all thy life, but yet king-born, Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power Only, are likest Gods, who have attained Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying bliss, In knowledge of their own supremacy.'
"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit