AQUAMARINE
I think, when I grow tired of the world,
I shall go back to Greece (in spring, of course),
By forest trail, and oleander source,
Past snow-peaks on green mountain lawns impearled.
To Trypi: where, from saddle I shall slide,
And hear my donkey’s bell jerk as he feeds
On herbs and simples—growing to his needs—
By rosy roofs set in the green glenside.
Far down the valleys I shall hear the call
Of white-garbed peasants; throaty cattle-cry;
The little Trypi brook will rustle by
Among the poplars, silver-green and tall.
I shall watch Greek girls, toiling up the height,
Laden with brush and whorls of scented thyme,
And see their youthful climbing pantomime,
Ere I lie down to ponder with my might
On three sweet subjects, simple village themes,
And yet so strange, so subtle, I have met
No man, nor woman, who can tell me yet
The answers, nor have found them in my dreams.
First: The Greek plane-trees, cool ancestral trees,
Biblical-strong, like mighty tents of Saul,
What earth power spreads their green ethereal
Canopied gloom, their soft immensities?
Next, the Greek fruits and flowers; what godlike soil
Nourishes orange, fig, and olive stretch,
So that no child goes forth the goats to fetch
But fills his cap with colored orchard spoil?
Last, I shall ponder (never sure, quite,
Imaging richly, merged in miracle)
Wondering what source conceals the mystic shell
Staining with blue the Ægean’s mica-light.
Lies in it some great Pool, that slow distils
Azure of flowers and skies to pigment bold?
Or do the encircling mountain-chains enfold
A vat of purple, whence wine-color spills?
Ægean Blue, that crimson-orchil tide
Bold, deep, intensest, incandescent flame,
Pure well of Azure, fitly has no name
But Greece in her inimitable pride
Of worship on strange occult secret planes
The hidden sponsors of her visual life
May, long ago, ’neath sacrificial knife
Have loosed the gods’ blue blood from Dacian veins.
One can see Spartan blood flow down Greek shores,
In crimson poppy-tide, in scarlet waves;
But it is “wine-dark” energy, that laves
Gold-bronzèd rocks and hidden sea-cave floors.
Ah! it is not enough for me to say
“Faery silver-azure! Clear, superb
Cobalt no chemistry of sun can curb,
Attar of purest lapis-lazuli.”
’Tis not enough for me to invent a name
Like Nauplian Blue, Greek Blue, Blue of Emprise,
As I re-vision golden argosies
Or red-sailed moth-boats sailing molten flame.
No—I must ponder (never sure quite),
Always a-dream in Trypi, where the trees
Whisper adventurous old names of seas,
Through silver valley-eve and mountain night.