Sweden's Laureate: Selected Poems of Verner von Heidenstam/Nameless and Immortal
NAMELESS AND IMMORTAL
Finished, in Pæstum's rose-embowering garden,Stood Neptune's temple, and the man who plannedSat near. His young wife, on his shoulder leaning,Spun with the yellow distaff in her hand.She listened to the piping of the herdsmenWho tended on the hills their droves of swine,And with an almost childish joy she murmured,Twisting the flax about her fingers fine:"My cup of happiness is filled to brimming.The man who brings me home to Naxos' strand,Now he has built yon glorious Neptune temple,Returns, immortal, to his native land."
Then solemnly her husband answered her:"No, when we die, our name will pass awayA few years after, but yon temple thereWill still be standing as it stands to-day.Think you an artist in his time of powerSees in the background multitudes that shout?Nay, inward, only inward, turns his eye,And he knows nothing of the world without.'Tis therefore that the bard would weep hot bloodIf he deliver not his pregnant soul;But he would kiss each line wherein he seesHis spirit live again, true-born and whole.'Tis in such lines as these he lives and moves.He strives for immortality—but mark!'Tis for his writings, never for himself; The man's true reputation is his work.What's Homer? At the very best a myth!We seek to clasp a more enduring fame.We see the pulses leap on Homer's brow,For 'Iliad' has become his mighty name."
He rose, as if to go, but suddenlyShe caught him by the cloak and held him fastAnd murmured, while a hundred smiles dissolvedIn the one look that furtively she cast:"Still on a column there your name is carved.If this proud vaunt be earnest, as you say,Take from among the tools there at your feetThe biggest sledge and hew the name away!"
He turned, he shot at her a keen, quick glance,But when she sat there calmly as before,Twisting the flax into an even threadAnd gazing at the masts along the shore,He bent him down impulsively and tookThe biggest sledge; his knuckles were distendedAnd then grew white as wax, so hard he grippedUpon the haft. The lifted sledge descended.It scattered sparks from out the column's side,And at his feet the steps were sprinkled o'erWith rain of pointed shards. From that time forthThe temple bore the artist's name no more.
Then with a cry of joy his young wife sprangQuickly from flax and distaff to the place, And mid the scattered fragments of his fameShe fell and clasped his knees in her embrace."Ah, now," she cried, "no words can tell my joy,As we return to Naxos whence we came.Now is my lord a thousand times more greatAnd 'Pæstum's Temple' is his mighty name!"
So evening fell. A single ship went outWith lowered sail, a Naxos flag had she.Slowly she rowed far out against the sunAnd vanished on the mirror of the sea.
A thousand years and more have passed away,Leveling Pæstum with the verdant plain,But still the temple stands, and in its shadeThe fiddlers wake Arcadian joys again.The master's name may no man surely know,But all who see the temple's gleaming heightMay see his very soul in yonder formAnd share to-day the architect's delight.He is to me an old beloved friend—Though far away, I know him in good truth—A schoolmate, brother, comrade of my youth.