Epithalamium
Old Paris, flexing his quiver finger
lies down on the mountain side
and spies beneath his honest eyes
her of downy nape, in whose own grey eyes linger
the desires of men, weaving
in the evening sun.
She is wearing a vagrant crown of blue hyacinths
and sings for her wedding day; for
her husband, another, from his slumber to awake.
And you are shaded by the plane tree
against the evening sun.
You are offered oils and races to be run.
You glance Old Grabber waiting, still
stretching out his finger;
deaf to the fescennine song.
The sleepy groom awakens and shakes him
by the hand,
Paris’ grip’s much stronger than expected.
And you can see the judgements slipping
through his fingers like the sand,
but dawn is here for you will be worshipped.
Yes, dawn is here, the autumn mist is spread
like feathered breath;
a huswife queen comes through the northern sky.
And there are men cut down by arrows or her blessed laugh.
And there are men who love her or those who’ll try.
Paris lies down on the mountain side
stretching out each finger;
the dancing couple glance and glide, glance and glide,
bend their backs and arch their necks
attuned to the hopeful singer:
a union made for the blooding of the tide.
