Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, OSCHOPHORIKON; VINTAGE PROCESSIONAL, by RHYS CARPENTER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

OSCHOPHORIKON; VINTAGE PROCESSIONAL, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The staffs are wreathed; move on, move on
Last Line: From athens into phaleron.
Subject(s): Autumn; Bacchus; Greece; Mythology; Mythology - Classical; Rites & Ceremonies; Seasons; Summer; Fall; Greeks


VINTAGE PROCESSIONAL

THE staffs are wreathed; move on, move on,
While the youths and maidens sing
'Io, Bacchus, lord and king,
Worshipful in Phaleron,
To thy mystic shrine we bring
Song and sacred offering.'

The sun laughs overhead; the white way gleams;
About us are the olives and the vineyards where the light
Leaps and dances in the heat
And the autumn's restless feet
Dance the harvest dances, where the might
Of September, month of dreams,
Holds the valleys, hills, and streams,
Still the sun laughs: still the white way gleams.

Away, away, move on, move on,
Worshipping at Phaleron
With festival and sound of dancing feet:
Mid-summer's past and autumn's here to greet
Dance the harvest-dances on the bursting vine,
Harvest well the vine-crop, well tread out the wine,
While September, month of dreams,
Holds the valleys, hills, and streams,
And the wine-press in the heat
Gleams with glint of naked feet.
Away! away!
The blithe processional moves on
From Athens unto Phaleron.

The staffs are wreathed, the choruses of youths and maidens sing
'Io, Bacchus, lord and king,
To thy mystic shrine we bring
Song and sacred offering,
Ancient legends, ever new,
How the godlike Theseus slew
Far in Crete the Minotaur,
How for his return he swore
Sails of white, and was forsworn,
How King Aegeus hope-forlorn
Hurled himself into the sea,
How the festive revelry
Knew not aught of Aegeus dead,
But, by smiling Theseus led,
Heard not, till their mirth was spent:
—Revelry became lament.'
So they sing, and so move on,
Worshipping, to Phaleron.

So they move, and so they sing
'Io, Bacchus, lord and king,
Thou art hid, the mystic wine-god,
In the hot sun-beaten vine;
In the must, mad feet of thine trod;
In the spurting purple wine.
Sun and summer, they are thine,
Song and gay brain-reeling mirth,
Revelry and riot,
Laughter and delight of earth,
Joy shall not be quiet.'—
Fiercer grows the strain,
Awakening dull pain.

'Thou art the foam upon the must,
The purple in the lees of lust,
The cup o'erturned, the dregs spilt in the dust.'
Suddenly the sadness falls;
Weary lamentation calls,
Evoe, evoe,
Iou, iou.
'Io, Bacchus, lord and king,'—
Speech there is no fathoming;
Revel spent and sorrow come,
Mirth and merriment made dumb.
Iou! iou!
Evoe! evoe!—

So they sang, and so moved on
From Athens into Phaleron.





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