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.