Poems (Stuart)/Boys Bathing
BOYS BATHING.
Round them a fierce, wide, crazy noonHeaves with crushed lips and glowing sidesAgainst the huge and drowsy sun,Beneath them turn the glittering tidesWhere dizzy waters reel with gold,And strange, rich trophies sink and riseFrom decks of sunken argosies.With shining arms they cleave the coldFar reaches of the sea, and beatThe hissing foam with flash of feetInto bright fangs, while breathlesslyCurls over them the amorous sea.
Naked they laugh and revel there.One shakes the sea-drops from his hair,Then, singing, takes the bubbles: oneLies couched among the shells, the sandsTelling gold hours between his hands:One floats like sea-wrack in the sun.The gods of Youth, the lords of Love,Greeks of eternal Thessaly,Mocking the powers they know not of,Naked and unembraced and free! To whom the Siren sings in vainTo-day, to-morrow who shall beThe destined sport of gods and men.
Unseen the immortal ones are here,Remembering their mortal loves—The strange, sweet flesh, the lips that wereFrail and most perishably fair.Diana leaves her whispering groves,And of Actæon dreams and sighs,And hears the hounds bay in the wood.Oh, Cythera, the trembling bloodUpon one petal's paling mouthBefore thee and this noon must riseWhile thou remember Adon's eyes!One mournful and complaining shadeBeyond Avernus bows his head,Dreaming of one beloved youthBorne from him, lost and dazed and dead,Dragged by the nymphs' avenging hairInto the sea-bed oozing dim,In that cold twilight unawareOf each great sunrise over him.
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One day, while still these waters run,And noon still heaves beneath this sun, You shall creep, unremembering,Whom Life has humbled and subdued,Ruined your bodies, tamed your blood,No more the lords of anything.But spent and racked with mortal pains,The slow tide pushing through your veins,Coldly you face this magic shore;For you the disenchanted noonScarce haunted is with ghosts that wereOnce, and were you, and are no more.
Faltering against the wind and sunThat vainly seek your hair for gold,Stubborned with habit, grey and old,You know not why you wander here,Nor what vague dream pursues you still,For Life has taken fullest tollOf all your beauty; on each soulLove's hand has left his bitter mark,Has had of you his utmost will,And thrusts you headlong to the dark.
And colder than these waters areThe stream that takes your limbs at last:Earth's vales and hills drift slowly past . . .One shore far off, and one more far.