Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.

III. Love’s Beginnings

Atalanta’s Race

William Morris (1834–1896)

AND there two runners did the sign abide

Foot set to foot,—a young man slim and fair,

Crisp-haired, well knit, with firm limbs often tried

In places where no man his strength may spare;

Dainty his thin coat was, and on his hair

A golden circlet of renown he wore,

And in his hand an olive garland bore.

But on this day with whom shall he contend?

A maid stood by him like Diana clad

When in the woods she lists her bow to bend,

Too fair for one to look on and be glad,

Who scarcely yet has thirty summers had,

If he must still behold her from afar;

Too fair to let the world live free from war.

She seemed all earthly matters to forget;

Of all tormenting lines her face was clear,

Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were set

Calm and unmoved as though no soul were near;

But her foe trembled as a man in fear,

Nor from her loveliness one moment turned

His anxious face with fierce desire that burned.

Now through the hush there broke the trumpet’s clang

Just as the setting sun made eventide.

Then from light feet a spurt of dust there sprang,

And swiftly were they running side by side;

But silent did the thronging folk abide

Until the turning-post was reached at last,

And round about it still abreast they passed.

But when the people saw how close they ran,

When half-way to the starting-point they were,

A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man

Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near

Unto the very end of all his fear;

And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel,

And bliss unhoped for o’er his heart ’gan steal.

But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard

Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound

Of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeard

His flushed and eager face he turned around,

And even then he felt her past him bound

Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her there

Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair.

There stood she breathing like a little child

Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep,

For no victorious joy her red lips smiled,

Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep;

No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep,

Though some divine thought softened all her face

As once more rang the trumpet through the place.

But her late foe stopped short amidst his course,

One moment gazed upon her piteously,

Then with a groan his lingering feet did force

To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see;

And, changed like one who knows his time must be

But short and bitter, without any word

He knelt before the bearer of the sword;

Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade,

Bared of its flowers, and through the crowded place

Was silence now, and midst of it the maid

Went by the poor wretch at a gentle pace,

And he to hers upturned his sad white face;

Nor did his eyes behold another sight

Ere on his soul there fell eternal night.

Now has the lingering month at last gone by,

Again are all folk round the running place,

Nor other seems the dismal pageantry

Than heretofore, but that another face

Looks o’er the smooth course ready for the race;

For now, beheld of all, Milanion

Stands on the spot he twice has looked upon.

But yet—what change is this that holds the maid?

Does she indeed see in his glittering eye

More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade,

Some happy hope of help and victory?

The others seemed to say, “We come to die,

Look down upon us for a little while,

That dead, we may bethink us of thy smile.”

But he—what look of mastery was this

He cast on her? why were his lips so red?

Why was his face so flushed with happiness?

So looks not one who deems himself but dead,

E’en if to death he bows a willing head;

So rather looks a god well pleased to find

Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind.

Why must she drop her lids before his gaze,

And even as she casts adown her eyes

Redden to note his eager glance of praise,

And wish that she were clad in other guise?

Why must the memory to her heart arise

Of things unnoticed when they first were heard,

Some lover’s song, some answering maiden’s word?

What makes these longings, vague, without a name,

And this vain pity never felt before,

This sudden languor, this contempt of fame,

This tender sorrow for the time past o’er,

These doubts that grow each minute more and more?

Why does she tremble as the time grows near,

And weak defeat and woful victory fear?

But while she seemed to hear her beating heart,

Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out,

And forth they sprang; and she must play her part;

Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt,

Though slackening once, she turned her head about,

But then she cried aloud and faster fled

Than e’er before, and all men deemed him dead.

But with no sound he raised aloft his hand,

And thence what seemed a ray of light there flew

And past the maid rolled on along the sand;

Then trembling she her feet together drew,

And in her heart a strong desire there grew

To have the toy; some god she thought had given

That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven.

Then from the course with eager steps she ran

And in her odorous bosom laid the gold.

But when she turned again, the great-limbed man

Now well ahead she failed not to behold,

And, mindful of her glory waxing cold,

Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit,

Though with one hand she touched the golden fruit.

Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear

She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize,

And o’er her shoulder from the quiver fair

Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes

Unnoticed, as amidst the people’s cries

She sprang to head the strong Milanion,

Who now the turning-post had wellnigh won.

But as he set his mighty hand on it,

White fingers underneath his own were laid,

And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did flit.

Then he the second fruit cast by the maid;

But she ran on awhile, then as afraid

Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no stay

Until the globe with its bright fellow lay.

Then, as a troubled glance she cast around,

Now far ahead the Argive could she see,

And in her garment’s hem one hand she wound

To keep the double prize, and strenuously

Sped o’er the course, and little doubt had she

To win the day, though now but scanty space

Was left betwixt him and the winning place.

Short was the way unto such wingèd feet,

Quickly she gained upon him till at last

He turned about her eager eyes to meet,

And from his hand the third fair apple cast.

She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast

After the prize that should her bliss fulfil,

That in her hand it lay ere it was still.

Nor did she rest, but turned about to win

Once more an unblest, woful victory—

And yet—and yet—why does her breath begin

To fail her, and her feet drag heavily?

Why fails she now to see if far or nigh

The goal is? Why do her gray eyes grow dim?

Why do these tremors run through every limb?

She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find

Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this,

A strong man’s arms about her body twined.

Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss,

So wrapped she is in new, unbroken bliss:

Made happy that the foe the prize hath won,

She weeps glad tears for all her glory done.