A branch, the hand of Apollo,
The plane tree’s polished, broad bough,
Spread above you, may it bring you
The universe’s immortal peace.

You’d meet me on the broad and shining shore
Of Pylos, so I’d planned,
With Mentor’s tall ship pulled up on the beach
Snug in the sand.

We would be bound, as those who sailed with the gods,
In the winged friendship of youth,
And would take our seats in the stone thrones that Time
And custom had made smooth

And meet that man who still in the third generation
Reigned serene, a sage
Whose tales of travels and holy decrees had ripened
In his mind with age—

At dawn, we’d attend the sacrifice to the gods,
The ritual slaughters
Of the three-year-old heifers, and hear the single cry
That rose from his three daughters

When the axe thwacked, and the black-fringed, slow-rolling eye
Drowned in a swoon
Of darkness, and the gilt horns were rendered idle,
A hazy half moon.

My love imagined you, as a sister her brother,
In your virginal bath,
How Polycaste rinsed your naked body and dressed you
In a robe of fine cloth.

I thought to prod you a little with my foot
As dawn was about to break:
The gleaming chariot’s yoked for us and ready.
No time to lose! Awake!

And to spend all day in the talk that comes and goes,
Or silence, when no one spoke,
While we drove the horses who were always leaning one way
Or another against the yoke,

But most of all I wanted to see your eyes,
Your deer-like eyes, behold
The palace of Menelaus, and forget themselves
In bronze and the gleam of gold,

Unwavering gaze, sinking the sight so deep,
You’d never remember
The figured silver, the ivory, gilded or white,
The heavy amber,

And I thought that I would say in a hushed voice
Leaning close to your ear,
Watch out, my friend, because in a moment, soon,
Helen will appear

Before our very eyes, the one and only
Daughter of the Swan,
And then we will sink our eyelids in the river
Of Oblivion.

So brightly I saw you; but what grassy roads
Have led me to your tomb!
And the blazing roses with which I strew your grave
And make all Rome abloom,

Light the way unto your golden songs
As though they were the brave,
Armed bodies that turn to dust before one’s eyes
In an ancient, new-breached grave,

And all the worthy treasure of Mycenae,
The golden plunder
I thought to lay before you—goblet, sword,
And diadem—past wonder,

A mask on your dead beauty like the mask
That covered the face
Of the king of the Achaeans—all gold, all artifice,
Hammered upon Death’s trace.