IV

Hermes came, and hailing his three peers, Spoke Aphrodite’s name; whose beautiful laughter Answered as she glistened in their midst— No woman now, but goddess. So Hephaestus Hove into their view, and all of the others, Manifest together. This was where, In tulip and oak shade, they pleased to meet, To sit sometimes and say how the world went, Mortal and immortal. “You of the golden Shoulders,” Hermes said, “bring dreams to one Who lived in peace without them.” “Lived in hate, In loathing of those very limbs he fondled— Poor, poor limbs, so lonely!” And her insolent Laughter shook the listening green leaves. “Yet he would have forgotten, and his only Danger been from Ares”—who was there, Swelling his thick chest, as Hermes spoke— “From the two minions, old and young, of Ares. Such danger can dissolve, for it is wind And fury; but the damage that you do, Arrogant bright daughter of the dolphins, Is endless as waves are, or serpent segments The impotent keen knife divides. Have mercy, Goddess.” And he waited. But her lips, Unmoving, only teased him; and tormented Artemis. “The man was free of longing, And the dark maid of him,” the huntress said, “Till this one wantoned, wooing him with dreams. Then Ares—common soldier—fanned the fire In those you call his minions.” Hermes nodded. “And so our plan’s perplexed before it ripens. Athene, Michael—tell them how we stood, Just here, and heard the boy refuse his function.” But it was known among them even then, And so no witness needed. Aphrodite, Secure in beauty’s pride, tilted her head To hear, intending mockery of the tale. But the wise one withheld it, and majestic Michael only folded his broad wings As Gabriel did, as Raphael. Yet that last one, Mournful of face and long, had ears for Artemis, Nurse to all things aborning, as she mused: “The young one when he comes—in what men call The fall of their brief year—the roofless infant— It was for him we planned. And still we do—” She dared the glittering goddess—“still we seek Safe birth for the small mother, and for him The wailing, the unwanted.” Crooked Hephaestus, Clearing his mild throat, remarked in modesty: “The man works well and silently. He loves, In solitude, the comfort of my fire. And so in a bowl I brought it. As for her— He will not have her near him. I was by; I read his thoughts of this.” “Absurd contriver! Artisan of the bellows! Zeus’s butt! As ever, you know nothing.” Aphrodite Sparkled with rage, reviling him. “You saw By daylight, and at labor in the field One whom that very night I made my slave. Off to your anvil, ass!” But Hermes calmed Their quarrel, lifting his either hand in grace. “Without our father’s thunder we are fools And children. Who decides when lesser gods, When angels disagree? Authority absent, Silence—a silver silence—that is best.” And like a song they heard it, and they wondered, Measuring its notes. Until Apollo, Lord of the muses, laughed. “You heard me humming. All to myself I sang it—with sealed lips.” “What did you sing?” said Hermes. “Nothing, nothing. My sisters round the world—a sweet wind brought me, Sleepily, this air.” He hummed again, And this time closed his eyes. “Perhaps I see,” He said, “some silver moment coming soon— Necessity for music. But not now.” Nor could those other nine foresee the summer. Already, in mid June, high long days Hovered the world, and change, like ripening fruit, Hung ever, ever plainer. Yet no man, No god distinguished more in this green time Than purposes that crossed; and ever tighter. In Daniel’s house the woman who was resting— Daily, in scorn, Berrien spoke the word— Still did not spare the beautiful dream body She sent to him by dark, when Dora too Lived by his side and loved him: standing there In the shed radiance of one who smiled And smiled, and burned his reticence away. For he would go to Dora—come July, Said Daniel, lying afterwards and listening As night died between him and the windows, He would go there, he would, and say it all; He would have Dora, small in his long arms, Forever. Yet the sweetness of this thought Exhausted him, and hollowed his wild eyes, So that he never went. And had he gone, What Dora would have seen him come and shivered? One whom as strong a dream—if it was a dream— Estranged. It was of having, yet not having, Bruce for her brave husband. For he mustn’t— He mustn’t, she said nightly, shutting away The vision—Bruce must never let it be. The nurse—he mustn’t listen. Yet if he did— And then she wept. Darius in the morning, Seeing her tears, thought only of his purpose. He should conceal it better. She was afraid, Was frantic, she might go somewhere and tell. That boy—he was so hard to keep in anger. He faltered, and he wilted; he was a fool. That boy, the center of confusion’s cross, For still he hated Daniel, still with Darius Plotted the loud death; yet loved all day, All night the dream of lying in clear peace Forever, in dear confidence, with Dora; That boy was whom the strangers in this valley Watched while the moments went; while June decayed; While middle summer dozed; and no leaves fell.