Excerpt
HYMEN
As from a temple service, tall and dignified, with slow pace, each a queen, the sixteen matrons from the temple of Hera pass before the curtain—a dark purple hung between Ionic columns—of the porch or open hall of a palace. Their hair is bound as the marble hair of the temple Hera. Each wears a crown or diadem of gold.
They sing—the music is temple music, deep, simple, chanting notes:
From the closed gardenWhere our feet paceBack and forth each day,This gladiolus white,This red, this purple spray—Gladiolus tall with dignityAs yours, lady—we layBefore your feet and pray: Of all the blessings—Youth, joy, ecstasy—May one gift last(As the tall gladiolus mayOutlast the wind-flower,Winter-rose or rose),One gift above,Encompassing all those; For her, for him,For all within these palace walls,Beyond the feast,Beyond the cry of Hymen and the torch,Beyond the night and musicEchoing through the porch till day.The music, with its deep chanting notes, dies away. The curtain hangs motionless in rich, full folds. Then from this background of darkness, dignity and solemn repose, a flute gradually detaches itself, becomes clearer and clearer, pipes alone one shrill, simple little melody.
From the distance, four children's voices blend with the flute, and four very little girls pass singly before the curtain, small maids or attendants of the sixteen matrons. Their hair is short and curls at the back of their heads like the hair of the chryselephantine Hermes. They sing:
Where the first crocus buds unfoldWe found these petals near the coldSwift river-bed. Beneath the rocks where ivy-frondPuts forth new leaves to gleam beyondThose lately dead: The very smallest two or threeOf gold (gold pale as ivory)We gatherèd.When the little girls have passed before the curtain, a wood-wind weaves a richer note into the flute melody; then the two blend into one song. But as the wood-wind grows in mellowness and richness, the flute gradually dies away into a secondary theme and the wood-wind alone evolves the melody of a new song.
Two by two—like two sets of medallions with twin profiles distinct, one head slightly higher, bent forward a little—the four figures of four slight, rather fragile taller children, are outlined with sharp white contour against the curtain.
The hair is smooth against the heads, falling to the shoulders but slightly waved against the nape of the neck. They are looking down, each at a spray of winter-rose. The tunics fall to the knees in sharp marble folds. They sing:
Never more will the windCherish you again,Never more will the rain. Never moreShall we find you brightIn the snow and wind. The snow is melted,The snow is gone,And you are flown: Like a bird out of our hand,Like a light out of our heart,You are gone.As the wistful notes of the wood-wind gradually die away, there comes a sudden, shrill, swift piping.
Free and wild, like the wood-maidens of Artemis, is this last group of four—very straight with heads tossed back....