Title: The songs of Bilitis
Translated from the Greek : A new rendering in English with notes and comment
Author: Pierre Louÿs
Translator: Mitchell S. Buck
Release date: August 7, 2025 [eBook #76646]
Language: English
Original publication: Unknown: Privately printed, 1919
Credits: Hannah Wilson, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Books project.)
THE SONGS OF BILITIS
Of this book, intended for private circulation,
only 975 copies have
been printed, after
which the type has been distributed.
This is Number 229
PIERRE LOUŸS
Translated from the Greek
A New Rendering in English
With Notes and Comment
PRIVATELY PRINTED
MCMXIX
Bilitis was born at the beginning of the sixth century before our era in a mountain village situated on the banks of the Melas, to the east of Pamphylia. The country is stony and sad, shadowed by profound forests, dominated by the enormous mass of Tauros; lime springs issue from the rocks; great salty lakes abide on the heights, and the valleys are filled with silence.
She was the daughter of a Greek and of a Phœnician woman. She seems never to have known her father for he is not mentioned in any part of the souvenirs of her childhood. Perhaps he died before she came into the world. Otherwise, it would be hard to explain how she bore a Phœnician name which her mother alone could have given her.
In this almost deserted land, she lived a tranquil life with her mother and her sisters. Other young girls, who were her friends, lived not far from her. On the woody slopes of Tauros, the shepherds pastured their flocks.
In the morning, at the crow of the cock, she arose, went to the stable, led the animals to drink and busied herself milking them. During the day, if it rained, she remained in the gynæceum and spun wool from her distaff. If the weather was fair, she ran in the fields and played a thousand games, with her companions, of which she speaks.
Bilitis regarded the Nymphs with ardent piety. The sacrifices which she offered, nearly every day, were for their fountain. She often speaks of them but it seems that she never saw them, for she reports with so much veneration the accounts of an old man who, one day, had surprised them.
The close of her pastoral existence was saddened by a love of which we know little, although she speaks of it at length. She ceased to sing of it when it became unhappy. Having become the mother of a child which she abandoned, Bilitis quitted Pamphylia for unknown reasons and never returned to the place of her birth.
We find her again at Mytilene where she went by way of the sea along the fair coasts of Asia. She was then scarcely sixteen years old, according to the conjectures of M. Heim, who established with probability some dates in the life of Bilitis from a verse which alludes to the death of Pittakos.
Lesbos was then the centre of the world. On the main road between beautiful Attica and magnificent Lydia, it had for its capital a city more elegant than Athens and more corrupt than Sardis: Mytilene, built upon a peninsula overlooking the shores of Asia. The blue sea encompassed the city. From the height of the temples one could distinguish on the horizon the white line of Atarnea which was the port of Pergamos.
The narrow streets were always encumbered by a throng resplendent in many-colored stuffs, tunics of purple and of hyacinth, cyclas of transparent silks, mantles trailing in the dust of the yellow shoes. The women carried in their ears great rings of gold set with raw pearls, and on their arms massive bracelets of silver roughly chiseled in relief. The men themselves wore their hair brilliantly perfumed with rare oils. The Greeks wore sandals with the ends fastened to their bare ankles by large serpents of bright metal, while the Asiatics wore soft, tinted boots. The passers-by stood in groups before the façades of the shops where the goods for sale were on display: rugs of sombre colors, cloths worked with threads of gold, jewels of amber and of ivory, according to the quarter. The animation of Mytilene did not end with the day; there was no hour so late that one could not hear, through the open doors, the joyous sounds of instruments, the cries of women, the noise of dances. Pittakos himself, who wished to give a little order to this perpetual debauch, made a law in defense of players of the flute too young to be employed in the nocturnal festivals; but this law, like all laws that pretend to change the course of natural morals, determined the secrecy but not the observance.
In a society where the husbands were occupied at night with wine and dancing-girls, the women could not fail to unite and find, among themselves, consolation for their solitude. Thus it was that they softened to those delicate loves to which antiquity has given their name, and which have, whatever men may think, more of true passion than invoked viciousness.
At this time, Sappho was still beautiful. Bilitis knew her and speaks of her under the name of Psappha which she bore at Lesbos. Without doubt she was the admirable woman who taught the little Pamphilian the art of singing in rhythmic phrases, whereby she preserved to posterity the remembrance of her loves. Unfortunately, Bilitis has given us few details of this woman, today so little known, and this is to be regretted, since the least word is precious which touches that great Inspiration. Instead, she has left us thirty elegiacs, the history of her love for a young girl of her own age whom she calls Mnasidika, and who lived with her. Already we knew the name of this young girl from a verse of Sappho in which her beauty is exalted; but the name even is doubtful, and Bergk almost thinks that she was called simply Mnais. The songs we will read soon, prove that this hypothesis may be abandoned. Mnasidika seems to have been a little girl, very sweet and very innocent, one of those charming persons whose mission is simply to permit themselves to be adored, so cherished that they make little effort to merit that which is given them. Loves without motives last the longest: this one endured for ten years. One knows how it was broken through the fault of Bilitis whose excessive jealousy admitted no eclecticism.
When she felt that nothing held her longer to Mytilene, except unhappy memories, Bilitis made a second voyage; she went to Cypros, an island Greek and Phœnician like Pamphylia itself, which must have recalled to her the aspect of her native country.
It was there that Bilitis began her life for the third time and in a manner my readers will understand with difficulty unless they recall the point to which love was considered holy among the people of antiquity. The courtesans of Amathus were not, like ours, lost creatures, exiled from all worldly society; they were girls from the best families of the city. Aphrodite had given them beauty and they thanked the goddess and consecreated to the service of her worship the beauty they had received. All the cities, like those of Cypros, that possessed a temple rich in courtesans, regarded these women with careful respect.
The incomparable history of Phryne, as transmitted to us from the Athenæum, gives some idea of the nature of this veneration. It is not true that Hyperides stripped her naked to soften the Areopagos, and because her crime was great: she had committed murder. The orator tore off the top of her tunic and revealed only her breasts. And he supplicated the judges: “Do not put to death the priestess and the inspired of Aphrodite.”—In distinction from the other courtesans who went out in transparent cyclas through which all the details of their bodies appeared, Phryne wore a costume which enveloped even her hair in a great folded vestment of which the statuettes of Tanagra have preserved the grace. No one, unless it were her lovers, had ever seen her arms and her shoulders, and she never appeared in the pool of the public baths. But one day an extraordinary thing occurred. It was the day of the festival of Eleusis; twenty thousand people had come from all parts of Greece and were assembled on the sea-shore when Phryne advanced to the waves: she removed her garment, she unfastened her cincture, she removed even her under tunic, “she unrolled her hair and entered the sea.” And in that throng stood Praxiteles who, after this living goddess, designed the Aphrodite of Knidos; and Apelles who, from her, revealed his Anadyomene. Admirable people, to whom naked Beauty could appear without exciting laughter or false shame!
I would that this history were that of Bilitis, for, in translating her songs, I have learned to love the friend of Mnasidika. Without doubt her life was also wonderful. I regret only that she is not spoken of oftener by ancient authors, and that those whose works have survived, give us so few tokens of her person. Philodemos, who pillaged her twice, does not even mention her name. In default of better anecdotes, I beg that you will be contented with the details which she herself has given us about her life as a courtesan. That she was a courtesan is undeniable; and even her last songs prove that, if she had the virtues of her vocation, she had also its worst weaknesses. But I would know only her virtues. She was pious and skillful. She remained faithful to the temple so long as Aphrodite consented to prolong the youth of her purest adorer. “The day when she ceased to be loved, she ceased to write,” she has said. Nevertheless it is difficult to admit that the songs of Pamphylia could have been written at the epoch when the events took place. How could a little shepherdess of the mountains learn to scan verses according to the difficult rhythms of the Æolic delivery? It is more reasonable to believe that, become old, Bilitis found pleasure in singing for herself the remembrances of her childhood. We know nothing of this last period of her life. We know not even at what age she died.
Her tomb was found by M. C. Heim at Paleo-Limisso, at the side of an antique road, not far from the ruins of Amathus. These ruins have almost disappeared within the last thirty years and the stones of the house where perhaps Bilitis lived, today pave the quays of Port Said. But the tomb was subterranean, according to the Phœnician custom, and it had escaped even the treasure hunters.
M. Heim entered it by a narrow pit, once filled with earth, at the bottom of which he found a walled-up door which had to be demolished. The wide, low tomb, paved with slabs of limestone, had four walls covered with plaques of black amphibolite, on which were graven, in primitive capitals, all the songs we are about to read, except the three epitaphs which decorated the sarcophagus.
There reposed the friend of Mnasidika in a great coffin of terra-cotta, under a cover modeled in delicate sculpture which figured in the clay the visage of the dead. The hair was painted black, the eyes half closed and prolonged by the crayon as though she were living and the painted cheek softened by a slight smile which brought out the lines of the mouth. Nothing can ever tell of those lips, so clean-cut, with a soft outward curve, united one to the other and as though intoxicated by their own contact.
When the tomb was opened, she appeared in the state in which a pious hand had placed her, twenty-four centuries before. Vials of perfume hung from pegs of clay, and one of these, after so long a time, was still fragrant. The mirror of polished silver in which Bilitis had viewed herself, the stylus which had trailed the blue pigment over her eyelids, were found in their place. A little naked Astarte, relic forever precious, watched always over the skeleton ornamented with all its jewels of gold, and white like a snow-covered branch, but so soft and so fragile that at the first breath it mingled with the dust.
Pierre Louÿs.
STRIPPED of my clothes, I climbed into a tree; my bare thighs embraced the smooth, moist bark; my sandals trod upon the branches.
At the top, yet under the leaves and shadowed from the heat, I sat astride a projecting branch and balanced my feet in the void.
It rained. The water drops fell and slipped over my skin. My hands were stained with moss and my toes were reddened from crushed flowers.
When the wind passed through the branches I felt the fair life of the tree; then I pressed my legs yet closer and laid my open lips upon the hairy nape of a bough.
LET us sing a pastoral song; call upon Pan, god of the wind of summer. Selenis and I each watch our flocks, from the round shadow of an olive tree which trembles.
Selenis lies upon the meadow. She raises herself and runs, searches for grasshoppers, gathers the flowers and herbs or bathes her face in the cool waters of the brook.
And I—I draw up the wool from the white backs of the sheep to garnish my distaff, and I spin. The hours move slowly. In the sky, an eagle passes.
The shadow turns; let us move the basket of flowers and the jar of milk. Let us sing a pastoral song, call upon Pan, god of the wind of summer.
MY mother bathes me in the darkness, she dresses me in the bright sunlight and arranges my hair in the light of lamps; but if we walk out in the moonlight she draws my girdle into a double knot.
She says to me: “Play with virgins, dance with little children; look not out of the window, shun the words of young men and turn from the counsel of widows.
“One evening, someone will take thee, as others are taken, over the threshold, amidst a great assemblage with sonorous drums and amorous flutes.
“That evening, when thou goest away, Bilito, thou wilt leave me three gourds of gall, one for the morning, one for midday and the third, the bitterest, the third for the days of festival.”
I HAVE black hair all the length of my back and a small round cap. My shirt is of white wool. My legs are fast browned by the sun.
If I lived in the city, I would wear jewels of gold and garments broidered with gold and shoes of silver.... I regard my naked feet in their slippers of dust.
Psophis! come here, little beggar! carry me to the spring, bathe my feet in thy hands and press olives and violets to perfume them like the flowers.
Today thou shalt be my slave, thou shalt follow me and serve me and, at the end of the day, I will give thee, for thy mother, lentils from my garden.
A BLIND old man lives upon the mountain. For looking upon the nymphs, his eyes have been dead for a long time. And, since, his happiness is a distant memory.
“Yes, I have seen them,” he said to me; “Helopsychria, Limnanthis; they were standing near the bank of the green pool of Physos. The water sparkled higher than their knees.
“Their necks inclined beneath their long hair. Their nails were thin as the wings of grasshoppers. Their nipples were hollowed like the cups of hyacinths.
“They trailed their fingers upon the water and drew up, from an invisible vase, the long-stemmed water-lilies. Around their parted thighs, the ripples slowly widened.”
“TORI-TORTUE, what doest thou amongst us?—I wind the wool and the thread of Milet.—Alas! Alas! Why dost thou not dance?—I am very sorrowful. I am very sorrowful.
“Tori-tortue, what doest thou amongst us?—I cut a reed for a funereal flute.—Alas! Alas! What has befallen him!—I will not tell. I will not tell.
“Tori-tortue, what doest thou amongst us?—I press the olives for oil for the stèle.—Alas! Alas! And who, then, is dead?—Canst thou ask? Canst thou ask?
“Tori-tortue, what doest thou amongst us?—He has fallen into the sea....—Alas! Alas! And how is that?—From the backs of white horses. From the backs of white horses.”
AS I was seated in the evening before the door of the house, a young man passed by. He looked at me, I turned away my head. He spoke to me but I did not answer.
He wished to approach me. I took a sickle from the wall and I would have cut open his cheek if he had advanced another step.
Then, drawing back a little, he began to smile and breathed in his hand toward me, saying: “Receive the kiss.” And I cried! And I wept! So much so that my mother hastened to me.
Alarmed, believing that I had been stung as though by a scorpion, I wept: “He embraced me.” My mother also embraced me and carried me away in her arms.
IT is already light I should rise. But the drowsiness of morning is sweet and the warmth of my bed enfolds me closer. I long to remain lying so.
Soon I will go to the stable. I will give the goats grass and flowers and a flask of fresh water drawn from the well where I will drink with them.
Then I will fasten them to the post and milk their soft, warm udders; and if the kids are not jealous, I will suck with them from the supple teats.
Amaltheia, has she not fed Dzeus? Therefore I will go. But not yet. The sun has risen too soon and my mother is not yet awake.
THE fine rain has fallen over all things, gently and in silence. It still rains a little. I will go out among the trees. My feet shall be naked, so that I will not soil my shoes.
The rain of springtime is delicious. The branches, laden with moist flowers, have a perfume which bewilders me. One sees the sparkle of the sun on the delicate bark.
Alas! how many flowers upon the ground! How pitiful, these flowers which have fallen. They should not be gathered and mixed with the mud but saved for the bees.
The beetles and the snails traverse the path between the puddles of water; I would not tread upon them nor frighten the golden lizard which stretches out, blinking his eyelids.
NYMPHS of the woods and fountains, sweetest of friends, I am here. Hide not, but come to my aid for I am burdened with many flowers.
I would choose, from all the forest, a poor hamadryad with raised arms and in her hair, the color of the leaves, I will place my heaviest rose.
See: I have taken so many from the fields that I cannot carry them away unless you help me make a garland. If you refuse, beware:
She of you with the orange hair, I saw her yesterday embraced like a beast by the satyr Lamprosathes and I will denounce the shameless one.
I THREW myself into her arms and wept and for a long time she felt my hot tears slip over her shoulders; then, when my sorrow let me speak:
“Alas, I am only a child; the young men never look at me. When will I have, like thee, a young woman’s breasts to raise my robe and entice kisses?
“There are no curious eyes if my tunic slips; no one gathers up the flower that falls from my hair, nor does anyone threaten to kill me if my mouth is given to another.”
She replied to me tenderly: “Bilitis, little virgin, thou criest like a cat at the moon and thou art troubled without reason. The girls who are most impatient are not the soonest chosen.”
Bergeronnet, bird of Kypris, sing with our first desires! The fresh bodies of young girls bloom with flowers like the earth. The night of all our dreams approaches and we talk of it among ourselves.
Sometimes we compare, all together, the differences in our beauties, our hair already long, our young breasts still small, our puberties round like shells and hidden under the nascent down.
Yesterday I competed with Melantho, my elder sister. She was proud of her breasts which had grown in a month, and pointing to my straight tunic, she called me “Little Child.”
No man could see us, we placed ourselves naked before the girls, and if she vanquished me on one point, I far surpassed her on all others. Bergeronnet, bird of Kypris, sing with our first desires!
I BATHED myself, alone, in the forest river. I am sure I frightened the naiads for I divined them moving anxiously far within the dark water.
I called them. To resemble them better, I plaited upon my neck irises black as my hair and branches of yellow gilliflowers.
Of a long floating grass I made myself a green girdle and, to see it, I pressed up my breasts and inclined my head a little.
And I called: “Naiads! naiads! play with me, be kind.” But the naiads are transparent, and perhaps, without knowing, I have caressed their delicate arms.
WHEN the sun burns less fiercely, we will go and play upon the river banks, we will struggle for a frail crocus or for a damp hyacinth.
We will make them into round collars and garlands, prizes for our running. We will take each other by the hand and by the ends of our tunics.
Come, Melissa! give us honey. Come, Naiads! we will bathe with you. Come, Melissa! throw a shadow gently over our perspiring bodies.
And we will offer you, kind nymphs, not shameful wine, but oil and milk and goats with twisted horns.
THE voyagers who return from Sardis tell us that the women of Lydia are covered with collars and stones from the top of their hair to their tinted feet.
The girls of my country have neither bracelets nor diadems, but one of their fingers carries a silver ring and upon the bezel is graven the triangle of the goddess.
When they turn the point outward, they would say: “Psyche is to be taken.” When they turn the point inward, they would say: “Psyche is taken.”
The men believe this, the women do not. As for me, I little regard which way the point is turned, for Psyche offers herself freely. Psyche is always to be taken.
ON the soft grass, in the night, the young girls with hair of violets have all danced together, one of each two playing the part of lover.
The virgins said: “We are not for you.” And, as though they were bashful, concealed their virginity. Among the trees, an ægipan played upon the flute.
The others said: “We have come to seek you.” They arranged their robes like the tunics of men and they struggled gently while entwining their dancing legs.
Then, each pretending to be vanquished, took her friend by the ears, like a cup with two handles, and, inclining the head, drank a kiss.
THE river is almost dry; the brittle reeds are dying in the mud; the air burns and, far beyond the hollow banks, a clear brook flows upon the gravel.
It is there that, from morning to evening, the little naked children come to play. They bathe themselves only as high as their calves for the river is low.
But they walk in the current, sometimes slipping on the rocks, and the little boys throw water on the little girls, who laugh.
And when a troop of passing merchants lead their great white oxen to drink, they clasp their hands behind them and watch the enormous beasts.
I AM loved by the little children; when they see me they run to me and cling to my tunic or clasp my legs in their little arms.
If they have gathered flowers, they give them all to me; if they have caught a beetle, they put it in my hand; if they have nothing, they caress me and make me sit before them.
Then they kiss me on the cheek, they rest their heads upon my breasts; they supplicate me with their eyes. I know well what they would say.
They would say: “Dear Bilitis, tell us, for we are quiet, the history of the hero Perseus or the death of the little Hellé.”
OUR mothers were pregnant at the same time and, this evening, she is married, Melissa, my dearest friend. The roses still lie upon the path; the torches have not yet burned out.
And I return, by the same path, with mother, and I dream. Thus, as she is now, I also will be later. Am I already a woman?
The cortège, the flutes, the nuptial song and the flowered car of the bridegroom, all the festival, some other evening, will unfold for me under the branches of the olives.
Like Melissa at this same hour, I shall unveil myself before a man, I shall know love in the night, and, later, little children will nourish themselves at my swollen breasts....
THE next day I went to her house and we reddened when we saw each other. She led me into her chamber where we would be alone.
I had many things to say to her, but when I saw her I forgot them all. I did not even throw myself upon her neck, I regarded her high girdle.
I was astonished that nothing in her face had changed, that she still resembled my friend although, since the sleepless night, she had learned so many things startling to me.
Suddenly I seated myself upon her knees, took her in my arms, and whispered quickly, anxiously, into her ear. Then she laid her cheek against mine and told me all.
THE night mingles with the hair of women and the branches of the willows. I walked at the edge of the water. Suddenly I heard singing; then only I knew I was there with young girls.
I said to them: “To whom do you sing?” They replied: “To those who return.” One awaited her father, another her brother; but she who awaited her lover was the most impatient.
They had woven for themselves crowns and garlands cut from the branches of palms and lotos drawn from the water. They rested their arms on each other’s necks and sang one after another.
I moved along the river, saddened and all alone, but in looking about me I saw that, behind the great trees, the moon with eyes of blue was guiding me.
“SHADOW of the woods, whence she should come, tell me, where has my mistress gone?—She has descended upon the plain.—Plain, where has my mistress gone?—She has followed the banks of the river.”
“Fair river who hast seen her pass, tell me, is she near this place?—She has left me for the path.—Path, dost thou see her still?—She has left me for the road.”
“O white road, road of the city, tell me, where hast thou led her?—To the street of gold which enters into Sardis.—O street of light, touchest thou her naked feet?—She has entered the palace of the king.”
“O palace, splendor of the earth, return her to me.—See! She has collars on her breasts and circlets in her hair, an hundred pearls along her legs, two arms around her waist.”
COME, we will go into the fields, under the thickets of juniper; we will eat honey from the hives, we will make snares for grasshoppers with the twigs of asphodels.
Come, we will go to see Lykas who tends his father’s flocks upon the slopes of shadowy Tauros. Surely he will give us milk.
Already I hear the sound of his flute. He plays most skilfully. Here are the dogs and the sheep and he himself standing against a tree. Is he not fair as Adonis!
O Lykas! give us milk. Here are figs from our fig trees. We would rest with thee. Bearded goats, do not leap, for fear of exciting the restless bucks.
IT is not for Artemis whom they adore at Perga, this garland woven with my hands, although Artemis may be a good goddess who would guard my couches of pain.
It is not for Athena whom they adore at Sidon although she may be of ivory and of gold and carry in her hand a pomegranate which tempts the birds.
No, it is for Aphrodite whom I adore in my heart, for she only can give what my lips most need, if I hang on her sacred tree my garland of tender roses.
But I will not ask aloud that which I beg of her. I will raise myself upon my toes and confide my secret to a cleft in the bark.
THE storm continued all the night. Selenis of the beautiful hair had come to spin with me. She remained for fear of the mud, and, pressed one against the other, we filled my little bed.
When girls lie together, sleep remains at the door. “Bilitis, tell me, tell me, whom lovest thou?” She slipped her leg over mine to caress me softly.
And she said, against my mouth: “I know, Bilitis, whom thou lovest. Close thine eyes, I am Lykas.” I replied, touching her: “Do I not know thou art a girl? Thy jest fits badly.”
But she replied: “In truth I am Lykas if thou wilt close thine eyes. These are his arms, these are his hands....” And tenderly, in the silence, she enchanted my reverie into a singular illusion.
PURIFIED by the ritual ablutions, and clad in violet tunics, we have kissed toward the earth our hands laden with branches of olive.
“O Persephone of the Underworld, or whatever may be the name thou desirest, if this name is acceptable, hear us, O Shadowy-Haired, Queen sterile and unsmiling.
“Kokhlis, daughter of Thrasymakos, is ill, and dangerously. Do not call her yet. Thou knowest she cannot escape thee; one day, very late, thou shalt take her.
“But drag her not away so soon, O Dominatress invisible! For she weeps because of her virginity, she supplicates through our prayers, and we will give, for her deliverance, three black unshorn ewes.”
AS we both loved him, we played with the dice. It was a great moment. Many of the young girls looked on.
She threw at first the cast of Kyklopes and I the cast of Solon. But she the Kallibolos and I, feeling that I lost, I prayed to the goddess.
I played, I had the Epiphenon, she the terrible cast of Kios, I the Antiteukos, she the Trikias, and I the cast of Aphrodite which won the disputed lover.
But, seeing her pale, I threw my arm about her neck and said, close to her ear (so that she alone heard me): “Do not weep, little friend, we will let him choose between us.”
ALL the day, my mother has kept me in the gynæceum with my sisters whom I do not love and who talk among themselves in low voices. I, in a little corner, I spin my distaff.
Distaff, because I am alone with thee, it is to thee I will talk. With thy wig of white wool thou art like an old woman. Listen to me.
If I could go, I would not be here, seated in the shadow of the wall and spinning wearily. I would be sleeping with the violets upon the slopes of Tauros.
Because he is so much poorer than I, my mother will not espouse me. However, I say to thee: either I will have no wedding day or it is he who will lead me over the threshold.
FOR the day of Hyacinthus he gave me a syrinx made of carefully cut reeds united with white wax which was sweet as honey to my lips.
He taught me to play, seated upon his knees; but I trembled a little. He played after me; so softly that I could scarcely hear him.
We had nothing to say to each other, so near we were, one to the other; but our songs replied to each other and, by turns, our lips touched the flute.
It has grown late, there is the song of the green frogs who begin with the night. My mother will never believe that I have stayed so long searching for my lost girdle.
HE said to me: “Last night I dreamed. I had thy hair about my neck. I had thy locks like a black collar about my neck and over my breast.
“I caressed them; and they were mine; and we were bound thus forever, by the same locks, mouth upon mouth, like two laurels with but one root.
“And, little by little, it seemed to me that our limbs were mingled; that I became thyself and that thou didst enter into me like my dream.”
When he had finished he softly laid his hands upon my shoulders and looked at me with so tender a regard that I lowered my eyes, shivering.
LYKAS saw me come to him clad only in a light scarf, for the days had become overwhelming; he wished to mould my breast which remained uncovered.
He took fine clay, kneaded in the fresh, clear water. When he laid it upon my skin I thought I should faint, for the earth was very cold.
From my moulded breast, he made a cup, round and umbilicated. He placed it in the sun to dry and tinted it with purple and ochre by pressing flowers all around it.
Then we went to the fountain which is consecrated to the nymphs and threw the cup into the current with stalks of gillyflowers.
WHEN the night mounts into the sky, the world belongs to us and to the gods. We go over the fields to the spring, the dark wood to the glades, wherever our naked feet lead us.
The little stars shine enough for such little shadows as we are. Sometimes, beneath the branches, we find sleeping hinds.
But more charming than all else, in the night, is a place known only to ourselves which attracts us across the forest: a thicket of mysterious roses.
For nothing in the world is so divine as the perfume of roses in the night. How is it that, in the time when I was alone, I never felt their intoxication?
AT first I did not reply; shame flushed upon my cheeks, and the beatings of my heart hurt my breasts.
Then I resisted, I said: “No. No.” I turned away my head and the kiss did not open my lips, nor love my fast closed knees.
Then he begged my forgiveness, he kissed my hair, I felt his burning breath, and he departed.... Now, I am alone.
I regard the empty place, the deserted wood, the trampled earth. And I bite my fingers until they bleed and smother my cries in the grass.