"Dying a second time, she complained not of her husband, for why should she complain of being beloved?"
Is she gone? My darling Eurydice
with haste is borne away before my eyes?
Durst I presage the truth and lend my faith
to think the Godless – is this her demise?
No love should e’er tread so crueler roads,
where even paths rebel n’ yield not the way!
Where cold-hearted stones care not and curse love
with all lost on their precipice this day.
I see her not. No subtle shape to tease
the wind about and ease its chill-edg’d mood;
I haven’t her grace, her mein nor her smile -
Bitter breeze you must contemn me, and brood.
But Lo! There is her scent. Those fruity fumes
and flo’ers. Smell her colour! Her texture! There,
like the stray sunbeam gently filt’ring through
the canopy, that kiss’d your eyes, lips, hair…
I should not breathe and thus dare expel her,
What man, beast or god could deny my Love?
My Eurydice… I only stole what
none could resist, and ‘stead saw you stol’n off!
Foul Gods with fouler games! What pow’rs let you
circle your bargains with a tainted rule?
With Hercules’s strength, Atlas’ fortitude
naught would change! What hope for I, Immortals?
Let me steer the sheer ‘byss fairly once more
and I would not falter! I would not fall
or fall behind she would not, but once more
her sweet voice’d be leased at my beck and call…
Chauron! I command you let me ‘gain
board and ‘cross to the further shores and her!
Boatman, heed me, take me ‘cross the Styx!
Refuse me? Curse you callous saboteur!
…alas, she is lost. And without my Muse
no hymn, requiem or song will e’er flow
from my fingers, from my Lute’s silvr’y strings.
No Eurydice, no music – this I know.
In the ruins that succeed this love apart
is a silent lute and a heavy heart,
n‘gether with the flitt’ring spirits, I cry:
‘Why should Orpheus live and she twice die?’