Classic and Contemporary Poetry
WINE OF CYPRUS, by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: If old bacchus were the speaker Last Line: I am sipping like a fly. Subject(s): Poetry & Poets | ||||||||
I IF old Bacchus were the speaker, He would tell you with a sigh Of the Cyprus in this beaker I am sipping like a fly, -- Like a fly or gnat on Ida At the hour of goblet-pledge, By queen Juno brushed aside, a Full white arm-sweep, from the edge. II Sooth, the drinking should be ampler When the drink is so divine, And some deep-mouthed Greek exemplar Would become your Cyprus wine: Cyclops' mouth might plunge aright in, While his one eye overleered, Nor too large were mouth of Titan Drinking rivers down his beard. III Pan might dip his head so deep in, That his ears alone pricked out, Fauns around him pressing, leaping, Each one pointing to his throat: While the Naiads, Like Bacchantes, Wild, with urns thrown out to waste, Cry, 'O earth, that thou wouldst grant us Springs to keep, of such a taste!' IV But for me, I am not worthy After gods and Greeks to drink, And my lips are pale and earthy To go bathing from this brink: Since you heard them speak the last time, They have faded from their blooms, And the laughter of my pastime Has learnt silence at the tombs. V Ah, my friend! the antique drinkers Crowned the cup and crowned the brow. Can I answer the old thinkers In the forms they thought of, now? Who will fetch from garden-closes Some new garlands while I speak, That the forehead, crowned with roses, May strike scarlet down the cheek? VI Do not mock me! with my mortal Suits no wreath again, indeed; I am sad-voiced as the turtle Which Anacreon used to feed: Yet as that same bird demurely Wet her beak in cup of his, So, without a garland, surely I may touch the brim of this. VII Go, -- let others praise the Chian! This is soft as Muses' string, This is tawny as Rhea's lion, This is rapid as his spring, Bright as Paphia's eyes e'er met us, Light as ever trod her feet; And the brown bees of Hymettus Make their honey not so sweet. VIII Very copious are my praises, Though I sip it like a fly! Ah -- but, sipping, -- times and places Change before me suddenly: As Ulysses' old libation Drew the ghosts from every part, So your Cyprus wine, dear Grecian, Stirs the Hades of my heart. IX And I think of those long mornings Which my thought goes far to seek, When, betwixt the folio's turnings, Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek: Past the pane the mountain spreading, Swept the sheep's-bell's tinkling noise, While a girlish voice was reading, Somewhat low for ai's and oi's. X Then, what golden hours were for us! While we sat together there, How the white vests of the chorus Seemed to wave up a live air! How the cothurns trod majestic Down the deep iambic lines, And the rolling anapaestic Curled like vapor over shrines! XI Oh, our AEschylus, the thunderous, How he drove the bolted breath Through the cloud, to wedge it ponderous In the gnarled oak beneath! Oh, our Sophocles, the royal, Who was born to monarch's place, And who made the whole world loyal Less by kingly power than grace! XII Our Euripides, the human, With his droppings of warm tears, And his touches of things common Till they rose to touch the spheres! Our Theocritus, our Bion, And our Pindar's shining goals! -- These were cup-bearers undying Of the wine that's meant for souls. XIII And my Plato, the divine one, If men know the gods aright By their motions as they shine on With a glorious trail of light! And your noble Christian bishops, Who mouthed grandly the last Greek! Though the sponges on their hyssops Were distent with wine -- too weak. XIV Yet, your Chrysostom, you praised him As a liberal mouth of gold; And your Basil, you upraised him To the height of speakers old: And we both praised Heliodorus For his secret of pure lies, -- Who forged first his linked stories In the heat of ladies' eyes. XV And we both praised your Synesius For the fire shot up his odes, Though the Church was scarce propitious As he whistled dogs and gods. And we both praised Nazianzen For the fervid heart and speech: Only I eschewed his glancing At the lyre hung out of reach. XVI Do you mind that deed of Ate Which you bound me to so fast, -- Reading 'De Virginitate,' From the first line to the last? How I said at ending, solemn As I turned and looked at you, That Saint Simeon on the column Had had somewhat less to do? XVII For we sometimes gently wrangled, Very gently, be it said, Since our thoughts were disentangled By no breaking of the thread! And I charged you with extortions On the nobler fames of old -- Ay, and sometimes thought your Porsons Stained the purple they would fold. XVIII For the rest -- a mystic moaning Kept Cassandra at the gate, With wild eyes the vision shone in, And wide nostrils scenting fate. And Prometheus, bound in passion By brute Force to the blind stone, Showed us looks of invocation Turned to ocean and the sun. XIX And Medea we saw burning At her nature's planted stake: And proud (Edipus fate-scorning While the cloud came on to break -- While the cloud came on slow, slower, Till he stood discrowned, resigned! -- But the reader's voice dropped lower When the poet called him BLIND. XX Ah, my gossip! you were older, And more learned, and a man! Yet that shadow, the enfolder Of your quiet eyelids, ran Both our spirits to one level; And I turned from hill and lea And the summer-sun's green revel, To your eyes that could not see. XXI Now Christ bless you with the one light Which goes shining night and day! May the flowers which grow in sunlight Shed their fragrance in your way! Is it not right to remember All your kindness, friend of mine, When we two sat in the chamber, And the poets poured us wine? XXII So, to come back to the drinking Of this Cyprus, -- it is well, But those memories, to my thinking, Make a better oenomel; And whoever be the speaker, None can murmur with a sigh That, in drinking from that beaker, I am sipping like a fly. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ENVY OF OTHER PEOPLE'S POEMS by ROBERT HASS THE NINETEENTH CENTURY AS A SONG by ROBERT HASS THE FATALIST: TIME IS FILLED by LYN HEJINIAN OXOTA: A SHORT RUSSIAN NOVEL: CHAPTER 192 by LYN HEJINIAN LET ME TELL YOU WHAT A POEM BRINGS by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA JUNE JOURNALS 6/25/88 by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA FOLLOW ROZEWICZ by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA HAVING INTENDED TO MERELY PICK ON AN OIL COMPANY, THE POEM GOES AWRY by HICOK. BOB A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF GOD by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |
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