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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,
O Love, O fire! once he drew
Before he mounts the hill, I know
In my dry brain my spirit soon,
The wind sounds like a silver wire,
And, isled in sudden seas of light,
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 Mournful Enone, wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest. She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff
6. O mother Ida; many-fountained Ida,
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love,
“O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Hear me ( Earth, hear me O Hills, () Caves, That house the cold crowned snake! O mountain
I will speak, and build up all
“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.
With down-dropt eyes,
“ Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm
Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold,
66 My own Enone, Beautiful-browed Enone, 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 Ranged 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 mced 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
“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.'
6 Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit