Pictures from a World

Sailing to Tauris: the pitchy cave, 
The corpse bobbing, bleached, limp as oil, 
Days, hung at the wind's aging breast, 
(The sail had no shade, the place of the sun 
No shape to tell me where he rode) 
You fell like a dream; or, looking down, 
Smiling, the laurel darkening your face, 
You saw them watching, their pale mouths opened,
Like shadows under the gliding sea. … 
One night you began to rot in your dream 
And held your sister, wet in your arms, 
Who wept with lips that fell apart in fat. 
You woke with a sob, rippling with sweat, 
And ran to the helmsman, and turned his face—
He spoke in the gods' tongue, forsaking you, 
His nostrils distended, drugged with the scent 
Of the dried blood scaling from his lips —
That hair, prettier than a horse's mane! 
And you cried "Lord!"—flung out your arms, 
And looked into eyes so fierce and luminous 
You woke with a hollow and tumbling cry. 
A bird came by your head, her wings thudding, 
The mast shook, the shields fell rattling to the deck, 
The ship struck. 
        There, rocking, till day, 
Your ship broke in that shallow way. 
The waves friended with the urging wind 
Flowed to your ship where she began 
To rot and scale—grey foam lumped thick as bees 
Gathered along her beak, spun up the oars 
That hung there creaking; and she heeled 
Half-over to those towering crests—waves wore at her, 
She wallowed shoreward, struck again, and stuck 
There on that shelf, head fast against the rocks 
That reached for her, stern back along the shoal 
That streamed like a snow-plume from them,—
Fast, with chopped oars and grinding beak, 
Her snake's head twisted back, and trailing oars; 
And as each wave burst, the plunging spray 
Broke round you and clustered on you in such clouds 
You looked like men whom darkness overtakes 
In hardest winter, when snow falls so thick 
They look like ghosts among the silent flakes 
And hardly speak. So you stood mute 
With hanging heads, or looked indifferently 
Along the smoking flats, or where a stream 
Crept pricked with bony weeds; and your gaze failed 
On all that water. … 
        Last, that day, dwarfed warriors 
Crept along that floor, faceless with air, 
A long time on the finger ridges, 
Patient and necessary as a star. 
The sand foamed with prints. Where they rode, 
Stamped there on the edge of the world, 
Striped with the livid flutings of the sky, 
They seemed as many as the night-seen swarms 
Of journeying strangers, when from far on high 
Their shrill song falls. So that day you heard 
The neighing of horses and the sound of iron 
And shouts—no Argive shouts! 
Some dismounted and walked on the sand, 
Waving to you, lifting their long cries 
That seemed so strange to you—the surf's sounds strewn 
Along the beaches, spoke in that savage tongue. 
Standing in a chariot, shading her eyes with her hand, 
A woman in a dyed cloak, holding a flat wand, 
Gazed out at you, solitary among the swells. 
The riders stared at her, or called to her 
Till she stretched out her arms and sang: 
The veils of mist, of foam riding the wind, 
Rolled seaward, or sank slowly to the sea, 
And the shore glittered in the fiery light. 
Her voice came floating across the waves. 
Then from the sea-depth voices groaned, 
And you looked down, shrieked out to see 
The black ship breaking, half-sucked-down. 
Stripped off the mantle! flung down the sword! 
Diving into the whirlpool, that cauldron 
Loud with a thousand shouts, shields'-sound, the shields 
Showing a last time their ornaments, 
An oar up-ended in the sea's triumph— 
You and your men sounded like birds with your cries. 
Helpless, pale as fish, 
Drawn down strangling, swept to the salt flats, 
Trying to stand, trembling, clutching at 
The blue flowers of the reeds. 
Them they speared (with what imperious gestures!); 
And you, last left of them, lay senseless there 
And rose half-senseless from the running sand 
And tried to stand, and staggered and sank back, 
Standing for one instant—imperishables!— 
Holding out to them your pressed hands.
Afterward you remembered them looking down, 
Standing so that the last foam of the wave 
Swirled round, or ended at, their feet: 
Doom looking at you, under the helmet's rim— 
Over it, the trembling feathery plumes. 

The journey inland: your wrists were bound. 
Standing in the chariot, staring back 
Through long locks the wind floats back, 
You watched the long train, the low sun 
Gilded your salt skin, your burning face. 
Riders called to you, waving their shields to you— 
The scarves waved, the wheat bent as you passed. 
You sat trying to hold up your head 
Or pressed your chin to the car's rim, 
Felt it so cold, you gave a child's sigh. 
Struggling through the first gasps of darkness, 
The riders came past; you peered at them— 
Limp hands, slow strides, wet beating sides— 
And then the winding road, the weedy road, 
Two haystacks like wheaten snow-men 
Standing like glaciers by the flood. 
How cold the drops flung from the hooves 
Felt as you halted at the ford! 
Wide and dark seemed the water, the sky darkening; 
Weeping, listening to the sound of that water, 
You lay by the gravels and the broken shells 
The low waves lapped along; when the bird whistled, 
You shuddered and fell asleep, and never saw 
The frogs and water-rats and all those birds 
That crept up through the reeds and stared at you; 
And in their midst the Furies sat 
And watched you with their drowsy look, and patiently 
Watched the horses drink with long sucking draughts 
Or peered at the carved handles of the shields. 
And as they stared at you, a mournful cry 
Sprang from your lips and from the leaves 
The Furies fondled with their hands. 

When they shook you awake, you moaned like a dog 
And lay with stretched mouth and struggling limbs— 
How bright the torches were! Then someone came to you 
And held out water in a cup, and lifted you; 
You looked at her senselessly, and shook your head. 
Yet when she pressed it to your lips you gulped at it, 
And it was so thick and bitter with some drug 
Your teeth rang on the rim, you gave a long shudder, 
Snatched it, and poured the rest out on the ground— 
Then you looked up at her and laughed. 
Her head began to swim away, you fell asleep. 

How long had you slept? You woke to the late day. 
Clouds blazed in the sunlight, the whole plain 
Bent to the sigh of that steady wind. 
You looked astonished at the image there 
That crouched like a hunted and misshapen thing, 
Swathed with the hides of horses, fox-furs, and the skins 
Of some long-horned, long-furred, and long-tailed beast, 
A fleece with its knotted and dragging fringe. 
Round her the maidens dressed like bears 
Pressed rank on rank; and past them old men stood 
In fresh-washed flax, and held out in their hands 
Green branches, green rye-woven crowns. 
On poles around, their long hair stirring in the wind, 
Some heads stood drying. One had rotted there so long 
Shreds of its face hung fluttering like a beard; 
And others, tanned like leather, stuffed with straw, 
Their combed hair twisted back, looked piteously 
From jewels sewn in their lids, into your eyes, 
As though to beckon you to their blind world. 
A man came walking through their midst, with clumsy steps. 
A long, white, and heavy cloak, high shapeless boots, 
A broad-sleeved and knee-long coat, and great peaked hood: 
Such garments, white as salt, hung covering him. 
Come to the goddess, he swayed and stood 
Two heads above her, huge as some high stone, 
And then unstrung and broke the bow he held 
With hands still hidden in his coat's great sleeves, 
And spoke; but in a voice so tremulous 
You stared, and saw under the high hood 
No face or eyes nor mouth: an egg of bandaging. 
Then as he stripped the stiff skins one by one 
From the black goddess who gazed passively 
Past your still face and travelling eyes, 
You saw her splintered arms and hacked-out breasts, 
And yet the knife-scarred wood seemed still to bear 
A rough and sooty bark. That bark, that skin was blood. 
Then you knew you were dreaming; when the white man 
   laughed 
You laughed aloud—laughed senselessly until you saw 
Under the chest's stiff basketwork and loose-spun cloth 
An old man's withered face and twinkling eyes. 

And so you came to her. Ah, lamentable it seemed 
To lurch like a beast, with harsh forced steps, 
To a wooden altar, and there groan out 
Unpitied words—and no more known as words. … 
Sidelong, and timidly, the maidens looked 
Who came to you; lashed like a sail upon a pole, 
You struck with your head against the hands 
That wound the furs along your limbs, or hid 
Even the ropes that bound you with their flowers, 
Long ribbons, leaves, and garlands hanging down. 
You still spoke a while, and then for pity ceased 
And wept at yourself; and strange it was to see 
The dancers with their masks and swords and leaves, 
And hear no music, no, nor sound except 
Their feet against the turf and their intaken breath 
Or your own moans and painful gasping breath. … 
A sigh waved their ranks; they stood there silently. 
You heard a sound, a sound, a long whispering sound, 
Then silence; then you waited a long time 
While your skin changed and your whole body changed, 
And still there was no sound; until you sensed 
A sort of warmth against your flesh, and suddenly 
Felt someone breathing there, a feathery touch. 
Sweat sprang from your limbs! your heart leapt! 
You felt your head fall and your lids grate fast: 
When you opened them she was standing before you. 

Gold hung from her arms, dark gold clasped round 
Her haggard face; what beasts worked red with gold 
Twisted their antlers past her tangled hair? 
Rays like a fan's shrivelling ribs 
Curved from her lips to color her burnt cheeks; 
Her lips were dyed; and through dyed lashes peered 
Eyes with a bird's pitiless and gloomy stare. 
So she looked; and yet in all that press 
At Argos or Mycenae, or in all the isles, 
You never saw her like: a face so fair! 
She wet your hair, and smoothed it with her hands, 
Water ran down your face, and it looked pale 
Under those dark and darkening locks; you shook them free, 
And how ghastly it looked-your pale anxious face! 
You trembled like a knife; was it thirst, then, 
That you felt stirring, dapping its wings 
In your dry breast and shrivelling throat? 
And in your angsh, the heavy foam 
Lay on your lips like a smile; until they came unstuck 
With a short wordless shriek, your head lolled back, 
And in your fit your eyes looked yellow 
As the bone eyes of an orphan's doll 
He makes from rags he finds, and sticks, 
And splinters from a bone the house-dogs gnaw. 
And surely, bound as you were, half-hid 
In flowers and long leaves, you looked 
More like a bush or some low branchy tree 
Than like a dead man hanging at the side 
Of his own death. A man came out, uprooted you, 
And stripped the lashings off, and let you fall, 
And you sat stiffly in the trampled grass 
And did not move—you could not move— 
And the man touched you and you fell. 
He looped round cords, and stretched and pegged them fast, 
And you lay staring into that foreign sky—
You saw the sword blaze. She bent over you 
And sobbed aloud, and raised it in both hands; 
Then shuddered and shrank back, and loosened it— 
You were still silent, and looked at her grimly. 
And when she calmed herself, and picked it from the ground, 
And once more raised it; when between you and her face 
The sword's line came—what did you see then, Orestes? 

The head sprang up, spun once, and fell; 
The hairs that trailed back toward the trunk 
Began to rise and shudder in the wind. 
Then she trembled and turned aside, 
Her hands were weakened, she loosed the sword 
And turned back blindly, bent to lift the head; 
And as she reached to take it, its lips curled 
For a little in their trembling smile, 
The lashes trembled, the bright eyes 
Looked at her meltingly. The mouth said: Sister! 

She stood there with her hand outflung 
And stared at the head; her lips shook, 
She stammered to herself the heavy word. … 
She once had stood and seen her slayers round 
And left living; none living had left her hand. 
Borne over the cloudless or shadowy deep, 
Friendless, or friended with arms, and armored friends, 
They swept to the garland and the wand, 
Long-lined, through long years, and all to that end! 
How strange to stand like a child, and tremble 
At a headless body—one more head 
To stuff and smoke and set on an empty stake; 
And if in the long nights of the long winter 
It still stares at you with its aching smile, 
And when you name it and lean to it longingly 
Its eyes seem to cloud in the firelight, 
And it turns from you, slowly, in the stinging smoke— 
What is it but one more head? If it seems to you 
The whole world and the way to a world 
Lost in one instant, under the plunging sword— 
Now once more your fingers shine with blood. 
The maidens lift their jars, pour through your hands 
Water that falls past stained; and after strew 
Bright shells and sea-sand on that sodden ground. 

An end for the children of a king, 
The king of that age. And under foreign eyes 
And far from their own home—from Argos, or from any town 
In all the Greek land; too far for any Greek
To have come to aid, or bear back word of them: 
For in another season, months before, 
He must have boarded ship, and spread his sails, 
Set out long-voyaging, and many days 
Sailed the Aegean, till at length he came 
Past Scyros and far-seen Lemnos to those straits 
Where passed the Boeotian prince, that hungry year 
His mother and her servants parched the wheat 
(He from the altar and his father's sword 
Fled on the Ram, to Colchis; out of love for him 
His sister fled, and by the Chersonese 
Fell like a star); so, quitting her small sea, 
Set forth upon the Euxine, and then bore 
Along those houseless shores until he seemed 
The dying autumn, or some wandering god— 
To gain that savage coast; come there by night, 
Went all alone, and silently, leaving his ship 
Moored, set for sailing, in some shadowy cove; 
And then went inland, walking all that night 
Among the marshes with their shivering reeds 
And misshaped and night-blanched flowers—swam sometimes 
With slow strokes through some little stream 
And saw past sodden and ropy locks 
The sinking moon. …  The late night quickens, 
Over the stagnant waters of the marsh 
An iron light flows; far away, with faint harsh cries 
Some birds fly up. So dawns the day 
The traveller walks through, and at eve he sees, 
Naked and grim among her worshippers, 
The image of the Taurian Artemis. 
This was the image Orestes came to take; 
And beside it, his head and body lay. 
So the traveller might have come; but no man came, 
No man lay hidden there, or saw, 
Parting the grasses with a silent hand, 
Under the long light of the level sun, 
The people, silent, watching with grave faces 
Their priestess, who stands there 
Holding out her hands, staring at her hands, 
With her brother's blood drenching her hands.