What is beauty to me? has she not slain me enough, have I not cried in agony of love, birth, hate, in pride crushed?
What is left after this? what can death loose in me after your embrace? your touch, your limbs are more terrible to do me hurt.
What can death mar in me that you have not?
What can death send me that you have not? you gathered violets, you spoke: “your hair is not less black, nor less fragrant, nor in your eyes is less light, your hair is not less sweet with purple in the lift of lock;” why were those slight words and the violets you gathered of such worth?
How I envy you death; what could death bring, more black, more set with sparks to slay, to affright, than the memory of those first violets, the chance lift of your voice, the chance blinding frenzy as you bent?
So the goddess has slain me for your chance smile and my scarf unfolding as you stooped to it; so she trapped me with the upward sweep of your arm as you lifted the veil, and the swift smile and selfless.
Could I have known? nay, spare pity, though I break, crushed under the goddess’ hate, though I fall beaten at last, so high have I thrust my glance up into her presence.
Do not pity me, spare that, but how I envy you your chance of death.
Nor skin nor hide nor fleece Shall cover you, Nor curtain of crimson nor fine Shelter of cedar-wood be over you, Nor the fir-tree Nor the pine.
Nor sight of whin nor gorse Nor river-yew, Nor fragrance of flowering bush, Nor wailing of reed-bird to waken you, Nor of linnet, Nor of thrush.
Nor word nor touch nor sight Of lover, you Shall long through the night but for this: The roll of the full tide to cover you Without question, Without kiss.
Thou art come at length more beautiful than any cool god in a chamber under Lycia’s far coast, than any high god who touches us not here in the seeded grass: aye, than Argestes scattering the broken leaves.
Gods of the sea; Ino, leaving warm meads for the green, grey-green fastnesses of the great deeps; and Palemon, bright seeker of sea-shaft, hear me.
Let all whom the sea loves, come to its altar front, and I who can offer no other sacrifice to thee bring this.
Broken by great waves, the wavelets flung it here, this sea-gliding creature, this strange creature like a weed, covered with salt foam, torn from the hillocks of rock.