Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PHILUMENE TO ARISTIDES, by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PHILUMENE TO ARISTIDES, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Master, for love's sake, thank me not for this
Last Line: Thou shalt not know, but I, but I, for thee.
Alternate Author Name(s): Duclaux, Madame Emile; Darmesteter, Mary; Robinson, A. Mary F.
Subject(s): Sacrifices


MASTER, for love's sake, thank me not for this
That I am dying for thee, who should miss
My crown of life and reason of my days
Did I not spend them for thee; thanks or praise
I covet not for such a little thing.
Only when in the tenderness of spring
Thou wanderest afterwards where woods are fair,
Then, noting clearer colour in the air,
Or new unusual sweetness in the song
Of lark or linnet, or, amid the throng
Of delicate flowers, one whose hue hath caught
The secret hope wherewith the spring is fraught;
Think then, "These are a message sent to me
From the dear angel of my memory."
So, being yet remembered of you, I
Shall live, who in thy death must surely die.
For often as I watch and weep and moan,
Praying for thee through all the night alone,
A sudden terror catches at my heart;
A spasm of anguish shoots through every part,
A fire burns through my palms and through my feet.
My wet eyes throb and strain in aching heat,
And in the solitary dark I moan
For weariness, and sob all night alone
Vain prayers for help, and toss in vexed unrest.
And find no way to endure, for none is best; --
Then, suddenly, a spirit makes it plain
That through my fever thou art free of pain;
Thou sleepest safe, my friend! I bear for thee
What is no anguish, nay, but joy for me --
Ay, joy; ay, glee; -- such laughter in me wakes
That oftentime my swelling throat nigh breaks!
Ah, then no more I sorrow! Till at last
My fever-fit and thy relief be past,
When all my soul protests, and prays in vain
My ending torture may begin again.

Likewise, when I make merry among my friends
In song or laughter, soon my pleasure ends.
My soul is shaken with a storm of fears,
An anxious presage strains mine eyes to tears,
I faint and yearn with unexplained regret
For some prenatal blessing I forget.
Unless indeed so close our natures be,
Thy pain untold, unknown, is pain to me....
So by thy joy of life, unknown, untold,
I, in the shadow of death, shall be consoled!

Lo now, it were no marvellous thing, should I,
For mine own sake, long in thy stead to die.
For am not I the prey of all thy pains?
Doth not thy fever burn and surge in my veins?
Indeed, my friend, I cannot even tell
If thou being dead, my life were possible.
But thou, O master and lord! O soul of me!
Hast no such double sense; my life to thee
Is needless, unrequired, save as a price,
Readily paid though poor, which shall suffice
To cheat the envious darkness of thy days.
But I to all the gods in heaven give praise
That I, a woman, none remembereth,
I, even I, shall turn aside thy death;
My lips shall taste the black and bitter wine
Faint ghosts in Hades press even now for thine,
And I shall mix with the earth, but thou go whole
Since for thy soul I render up my soul.
Shall not I thank the gods and sing, being glad
That in their eyes my prayer such favour had?
For thou shalt live, triumphant over death!...
The sharp, last agony, the catch in the breath,
The ache of the starting eyes, the red, blind night,
The fruitless search of hands that grasp at light,
And, worst of all, the horror of what may be,
Thou shalt not know, but I, but I, for thee.





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