Chloe, Sister of Beatrice

I.

Chloe, sister of Beatrice,
Whose lips are lauds and vespers said at once,
As gold as evening and as pale,
Pure and irenic as the dawn;
That misty arabesque of silk
Avers itself a glass and veil;
Nor Venus new-sprung from the foam
Could shock the falcon from its height,
Like as that neck, like as that thigh;
Once more has Icarus failed in his flight.
What mermaid thrid that evening-dress
Of pearly green and green turquoise,
That makes the earth your night, and you its moon?
Whosoever, ‘twas to all men a boon.
That slender waist, sweet nymph, could please
World-hating Manicheas,
And hummingbirds in twos and threes
Make secret pilgrimage to the lotus
That is your jasmine-clothed bosom;
O beautiful mundus!
Remember how the fawns were tame
To passionless Siddharta’s hand?
After the stars upon your brow made nest
The adrumbration of your comeliness
Was burned into the wall
Of Plato’s cave. As worlds sapphire
Are drawn from Jacob’s well
So do the ghosts and godlings come
To monger memories of you
In fathering a song
Upon the seventh rung.
The earth is slick with oil;
It is the house of God.

II.

Blue lashes and green eyes,
Quoth Seferis,
Our Chloe had;
And for a ring upon her hand,
The cycle of the year,
Maize, wheat, apple and pear.