The Inn of Dreams/Hyacinthus

by Olive Custance

For other versions of this work, see Hyacinthus (Custance).

Hyacinthus

 

Fair boy, how gay the morning must have seemedBefore the fatal game that murdered thee!Of such a dawn my wistful heart has dreamed:Surely I too have lived in ArcadyWhen Spring, lap-full of roses, ran to meetWhite Aphrodite risen from the sea . . .

Perchance I saw thee then, so glad and fleet;Hasten to greet Apollo, stoop to bindThe gold and jewelled sandals on his feet,While he so radiant, so divinely kind, Lured thee with honeyed words to be his friend,All heedless of thy fate, for Love is blind.

For Love is blind and cruel, and the endOf every joy is sorrow and distress.And when immortal creatures lightly bendTo kiss the lips of simple loveliness,Swords are unsheathed in silence, and clouds rise,Some God is jealous of the mute caress . . .

But who shall mourn thy death—ah, not the wise?Better to perish in thy happiest hour,To close in sight of beauty thy dark eyes,And, dying so, be changed into a flower,Than that the stealthy and relentless yearsShould steal that grace which was thy only dower.

And bring thee in return dull cares and tears,And difficult days and sickness and despair . .O, not for thee the griefs and sordid fearsThat, like a burden, trembling age must bear;Slain in thy youth, by the sweet hands of Love,Thou shalt remain for ever young and fair . . .