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and he puts them on, and is delighted
to present the decorous mien of a priest or friar.
Happy are all who believe,
and who, like the emperor Lord Manuel, expire
outfitted most decorously in their faith.
[1905; 1916]
In the Church
I love the church—its labara,
the silver of its vessels, its candelabra,
the lights, its icons, its lectern.
When I enter there, inside of a Greek Church:
with the aromas of its incenses,
the liturgical chanting and harmonies,
the magnificent appearance of the priests,
and the rhythm of their every movement—
resplendent in their ornate vestments—
my thoughts turn to the great glories of our race,
to our Byzantium, illustrious.
[1892; 1901; 1906; 1912?]
Very Rarely
He’s an old man. Worn out and stooped,
crippled by years, and by excess,
stepping slowly, he moves along the alleyway.
But when he goes inside his house to hide
his pitiful state, and his old age, he considers
the share that he—he—still has in youth.
Youths recite his verses now.
His visions pass before their animated eyes.
Their healthy, sensuous minds,
their well-limned, solid flesh,
stir to his own expression of the beautiful.
[1911; 1913]
In Stock
He wrapped them up carefully, neatly
in green silken cloth, very costly.
Roses from rubies, pearls into lilies,
amethyst violets. Lovely the way that he sees,
and judges, and wanted them; not in the way
he saw them in nature, or studied them. He’ll put them away,
in the safe: a sample of his daring, skillful work.
Whenever a customer comes into the store,
he takes other jewels from the cases to sell—fabulous things—
bracelets, chains, necklaces, rings.
[1912; 1913]
Painted
To my craft I am attentive, and I love it.
But today I’m discouraged by the slow pace of the work.
My mood depends upon the day. It looks
increasingly dark. Constantly windy and raining.
What I long for is to see, and not to speak.
In this painting, now, I’m gazing at
a lovely boy who’s lain down near a spring;
it could be that he’s worn himself out from running.
What a lovely boy; what a divine afternoon
has caught him and put him to sleep.—
Like this, for some time, I sit and gaze.
And once again, in art, I recover from creating it.
[1914; 1916]
Morning Sea
Here let me stop. Let me too look at Nature for a while.
The morning sea and cloudless sky
a brilliant blue, the yellow shore; all
beautiful and grand in the light.
Here let me stop. Let me fool myself: that these are what I see
(I really saw them for a moment when I first stopped)
instead of seeing, even here, my fantasies,
my recollections, the ikons of pleasure.
[?; 1916]
Song of Ionia
Because we smashed their statues all to pieces,
because we chased them from their temples—
this hardly means the gods have died.
O land of Ionia, they love you still,
it’s you whom their souls remember still.
And as an August morning’s light breaks over you
your atmosphere grows vivid with their living.
And occasionally an ethereal ephebe’s form,
indeterminate, stepping swiftly,
makes its way along your crested hills.
[1891; 1896; 1905; 1911]
In the Entrance of the Café
Something they were saying close to me
drew my attention to the entrance of the café.
And I saw the lovely body that looked as if
Eros had made it using all his vast experience:
crafting with pleasure his shapely limbs;
making tall the sculpted build;
crafting the face with emotion
and leaving behind, with the touch of his hands,
a feeling in the brow, the eyes, and the lips.
[1904?; >1915]
One Night
The room was threadbare and tawdry,
hidden above that suspect restaurant.
From the window you could see the alley,
which was filthy and narrow. From below
came the voices of some laborers
who were playing cards and having a carouse.
And there, in that common, vulgar bed
I had the body of love, I had the lips,
