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Rome is now ruled by the Etruscan upstart:
Tarquinius Superbus, the Proud, King.
But once servant to the late monarch
Servius. How did Tarquinius reach the throne?
By making his own virtues and his will
bend to the purpose of determined evil.
In quiet humility he bid his pride;
and running to agree with every faction
divided the Roman court till each part
sought him as an ally; and those he murdered,
he would mourn as though a friend had died.
If piety impeded him, he’d pray with it;
if greed, he’d bribe it;
and always he’d pay his way
with the prodigious liberality
of self-coined obsequious flattery;
so he climbed and married the king’s own daughter
whom he murdered; then married her sister,
the self-seeking, self-appointed widow
who’d poisoned her first husband, the heir.
Once joined in holy wedlock
they throttled the king;
and now rule Rome by force
and govern by sheer terror.
Whilst their son, Tarquinius Sextus
of whom you shall hear,
leads Roman youth to Etruscan war
and treats the proud city as if it were his whore.
It is an axiom among kings,
to use a foreign threat to hide a local evil.
So here the grumbling Romans march from Rome
to fight the Greeks who also march from home;
both armies fretting under their own generals.
How slowly time here moves towards the date;
this Rome has still five hundred years to wait
before Christ’s birth and death
from which time fled to you
with hands across its eyes.
But here other wounds are made,
yet still His blood is shed.
While we as two observers stand between
this present audience and that scene;
we’ll view these human passions
and these years
through eyes which once have wept
with Christ’s own tears.
Here the thirsty evening
has drunk the wine of light;
sated, the sun falls through the horizon,
the air sits on their backs like a heavy bear.
Only the noise of crickets alleviates
the weight of this silent evening.
Horses sensing thunder stamp in their stables
bull-frogs brag on their persistent note,
centurions curse their men,
the men curse
their luck,
as they look towards Rome’s distant lights,
which, bent in the Tiber,
beckon through the
night.
Who reaches heaven first
is the best philosopher.
Bacchus jumps there with a cup,
reason climbs there
later.
Oh, the only cup worth filling
is this! Is this!
The night is weeping with its tears of stars
but these men laugh – for what is sad is folly.
And so they drink to drown their melancholy.
Who drowns in women’s eyes
and then drinks lips of pleasure
sucks all heaven in a kiss,
then thirsts in hell
for ever!
Oh, the only wine worth having
is love! Is love! Is love!
Love, like wine, spills easily as blood...
And husbands are the broken bottles.
Last night some generals rode back to Rome
to see if their wives stayed chaste at home.
Celia was not found at all,
Flavius is still searching for her!
And Maximus found his wife Donata
had been served by some Sicilian actor!
Sophia’s silver chastity belt
was worn by her coachman – as a collar!
There Leda lay after a midnight bout,
too drunk to give a clear account.
Patricia lay naked with a negro.
She told Junius she’d been having massage!
You were fools to go at all!
Fools to set the honour of your wives
against a drunken bet!
I warned you not to go.
Why should you complain?
We found Lucretia safe at home.
The only wife who stood the test.
And Collatinus has won the bet.
And Junius is a cuckold
a cuckold’s a cock
without a crow
and Junius is a cuckold!
So are you, too,
since you have made
the whole of Rome your brothel.
My wife’s untrue,
but so is yours.
For you unmarried can only know
the constancy
of whores.
You forget I am the Prince of Rome!
But I at least am Roman!
With a negro deputy in bed,
it’s better to be Etruscan!
Spendthrift!
Usurer!
Lecher!
Eunuch!
Climber!
Upstart!
Rake!
Rat!
You young sot!
You old man!
Lewd licentious lout!
Pagan dyspeptic pig!
Ram reared!
Wolf weaned!
Peace! Peace!
Save your swords till we meet
the Greeks.
Let us drink, Prince Tarquinius, a toast!
To the chaste Lucretia!
To the lovely Lucretia!
Collatinus, Junius, Tarquinius
Lucretia!
Lucretia! Lucretia!
I’m sick of that name.
Her virtue is
the measure of my shame.
Now all of Rome
will laugh at me,
or what is worse will pity me.
Oh, it is plain
that nothing pleases
your friends so much
as your dishonour,
for now they can
indulge in chatter
and patronise you
with their patter,
and if by chance
you lose your temper,
they say they tease
in all good humour.
Tomorrow the city urchins will sing
my name to school
and call each other “Junius” instead of “Fool”.
Collatinus will gain my fame with the Roman
mob,
not because of battles he has won
– but because Lucretia’s chaste –
and the Romans being wanton worship
chastity.
Lucretia!
Collatinus is politically astute
to choose a
virtuous wife.
Collatinus shines brighter from Lucretia’s
fame.
Collatinus is lucky, very lucky...
Oh, my God with what agility
does jealousy
jump into a small heart,
and fit
till it fills it,
then breaks that heart.
Lucretia!...
How bitter of you,
how venomous
to vent your rage on her!
Why be so vicious
why so jealous?
You’re blinded by grief
at Patricia’s unfaithfulness.
The wound in my heart,
Collatinus,
will drive me to despair.
I ask your forgiveness
for being malicious
when you are so proud
of Lucretia’s virtue
or good luck!
Dear friend!
Collatinus!
Those who love create
fetters which liberate.
Those who love destroy
their solitude.
Their love is only joy
those who love defeat
time, which is Death’s deceit.
Those who love defy
death’s slow revenge.
Their love is all despair.
Oh, the only girl worth having
is wine! Is wine! Is wine!
And Junius is a...
Enough, Tarquinius!
A cuckold, a cuckold, a cuckold!
For God’s sake, stop!
You disgrace your rank by brawling like a common peasant.
He’s drunk.
That’s enongh, Junius!
Leave
quarrelling to those
with less
important tasks ahead.
l’m ready to forget.
Give me your hand,
Tarquinius.
With you two arm in arm again,
Rome can sleep secure.
Good night!
Good night!
Good night!
There goes a happy man!
There goes a lucky man!
His fortune is worth more than my Etruscan crown.
But he is subject to your crown!
And I am subject to Lucretia.
What makes the Nubian
disturb his heavy mountain?
Why does he ravish
the rock’s austerity
and powder it to dust
to find its secret lust
till in his hand he holds
the cruel jewel?
Is this all his hands were seeking?
What drives the Roman
beyond his river Tiber?
Why do Egyptians dare
the shark’s ferocity
and grovel in the deep
to rake its dream of sleep
till to his Queen he gives
the royal pearl?
Is this what his eyes were
seeking?
If men were honest
they would all admit
that all their life
was one long search.
A pilgrimage to a pair of eyes,
in which there lies a reflection greater than
the image,
a perfection which is love’s brief mirage.
It seems we agree.
But are not of the same opinion!
What do you mean?
I am honest and admit
as a woman’s my beginning,
woman’s the end l’m seeking.
Well...?
But as ambition is your beginning,
power’s the end you’re seeking.
That’s not true! But don’t let’s quarrel.
We’re both unfortunate:
I, with my unfruitful,
faithless
wife,
you. . .
With my barren bevy of listless whores.
Oh, I am tired of willing women!
It’s all habit with no difficulty or achievement
to it.
But Collatinus has Lucretia...
But Lucretia’s virtuous.
Virtue in women is a lack of opportunity.
Lucretia’s chaste as she is beautiful.
Women are chaste when they are not
tempted.
Lucretia’s beautiful but she’s not chaste.
Women are all whores by nature.
No, not Lucretia!
What?...
Already jealous of her honour?
Men defend a woman’s honour
when they would lay siege to it themselves.
I’ll prove Lucretia chaste.
No - that you will not dare!
That you will not
dare...
Good night, Tarquinius.
Tarquinius does not dare,
when Tarquinius does not desire;
but I am the Prince of Rome
and Lucretia’s eyes my Empire.
It is not far to Rome...
Oh, go to bed, Tarquinius...
The lights of Rome are beckoning...
The city sleeps. Collatinus sleeps.
Lucretia! Lucretia!
My horse! My horse!
Tarquinius does not wait
for his servant to wake,
or his groom to saddle;
he snatches a bridle
and forcing the iron bit
through the beast’s bared white teeth,
runs him out of the stable
mounts without curb or saddle
the stallion’s short straight back
and with heel and with knees
clicks his tongue, flicks his whip,
throws the brute into mad gallop.
Impetuous the powered flanks,
and reckless the rider
now the Prince and Arab steed
bend as one for both are speed.
Hear the hoofs punish the earth!
Muscles strain, tendons taut,
tail held high, head thrust back,
all’s compact, nothing’s slack.
See, the horse takes the bit
between his teeth, now no rein
can impede or stop him,
yet the Prince still whips him.
Now who rides? Who’s ridden?
Tarquinius, the stallion?
Or the beast, Tarquinius?
In both blood furious
with desire impetuous
burns for its quietus
with speed aflame through sweat and dust
the arrow flies straight as lust.
But here they cannot cross.
Turn back, Tarquinius;
do not tempt the Tiber
try to swim this river!
Stallion rears, hoofs paw the stars
the Prince desires, so he dares!
Now stallion and rider
wake the sleep of water
disturbing its cool dream
with hot flank and shoulder.
Tarquinius knows no fear!
He is across! He’s heading here!
Lucretia!
Their spinning wheel unwinds
dreams which desire has spun!
Turning and turning
twisting the shreds of their hearts
over and over.
Till in one word all is wound.
Collatinus! Collatinus!
Whenever we are made to part
we live within each other’s heart,
both waiting, each wanting.
Their humming wheel reminds
age of its loss of youth;
spinning and spinnng
teasing the fleece of their time
restless, so restless.
Till like an old ewe I’m shorn
of beauty! Of beauty!
Though I have never been a mother,
Lucretia is my daughter
when dreaming, when dreaming.
Their restless wheel describes
woman’s delirium;
searching and searching
seeking the threads of their dreams
finding and losing.
Till somebody loves her
from passion or pity.
Meanwhile the chaste
Lucretia gives
life to her Lucia who lives
her shadow and echo.
Their little wheel revolves,
Time spins a fragile thread;
turning and turning,
they spin and then they are spun,
endless, so endless
Till our fabric’s woven
and our hearts are broken
death is woman’s final lover
in whose arms we lie forever
with our hearts all broken.
Listen! I heard a knock.
Somebody is at
the gate.
Lucia, run and see;
perhaps it is a
messenger.
Run, Lucia!
Come and sit down again my child;
it is far
too late for a messenger.
Besides, you have
already had two letters
from Lord Collatinus
today.
Oh, if it were he come home again!
These
months we spend apart
is time thrown in the
grave.
Perhaps the war is won or lost.
What
matters if it’s finished?
My child, to hope tempts disappointment.
But did you not hear anything? Who was it?
There was no one there, Madam.
I was sure I heard something.
It was your heart you heard.
Yes, it runs after him with steady beat
like a lost child with tireless feet.
It is better to desire and not to have
than not
to desire at all.
Have patience, Madam.
How cruel men are
to teach us love!
They wake us from
the sleep of youth
into the dream of passion,
then ride away
while we still yearn.
How cruel men are
to teach us love!
Madam is tired, it is getting very late.
Shall I put these things away, Madam?
Yes, and then we’ll fold the linen.
Ah!
Time treads upon the hands of women.
Whatever happens, they must tidy it away.
Their fingers punctuate each day
with infinite detail,
putting this here, that there,
and washing all away.
Before the marriage they prepare the feast.
At birth or death
their hands must fold clean linen.
Whatever their hearts hold,
their hands must fold clean linen.
Their frail fingers
are love’s strong vehicle,
and in their routine is a home designed.
Home is what man leaves to seek.
What is home but women?
Time carries men,
but time treads upon the tired feet of women.
How quiet it is tonight. Even the street is silent.
It is. I can almost hear myself thinking.
And what are you thinking?
That it must be men who make the noise.
And that Madam must be tired and should go to bed
and leave this linen to Lucia and me.
Oh I am not tired enough.
It is better to do something
than lie awake and worry.
But let us light the candles
and go to bed.
The oatmeal slippers of sleep
creep through the city and drag
the sable shadows of night
over the limbs of light.
Now still night to sound adds
separate cold echo
as hoof strikes hard stones
on worn way, road to Rome.
The restless river now flows
out with the falling tide.
And petals of stars fall out
on to its back and float.
Dogs at heel race and bark,
sleeping cocks wake and crow,
drunken whores going home
turn to curse the Prince of Rome.
This city busy with dreams
weaves on the loom of night
a satin curtain which falls
over its ancient walls.
Now he’s through the city walls!
The black beast’s white with sweat,
blood’s pouring from its hocks,
the Prince dismounts; and now he...
None of the women move.
It is too late for a messenger,
the knock is too loud for a friend.
Lucia runs to the door,
hoping that Apollo’s called for her.
Anxiety’s cold hand grips Lucretia’s throat.
She pales with an unspoken fear.
Open, in the name of the Prince of Rome!
Lucia unbolts the door with excited haste.
Tarquinius enters Lucretia’s home.
The women curtsey. He is Prince of Rome.
The Prince bows over Lucretia’s hand.
His unruly eyes run to her breast
and there with more thirst than manners rest.
Lucretia asks for the news;
whether her Lord Collatinus is well, or ill
whether the army’s put to flight.
And what brings His Highness here with
haste at night?
Tarquinius laughs her fears away and asks
her for some wine.
With much relief she pours it.
He claims Lucretia’s hospitality.
He says his
horse is lame.
What brings the Prince Tarquinius here at this hour of the night?
How can he dare to seek for shelter from Lucretia?
Oh, where is Lord Collatinus?
He should be here to greet Tarquinius.
His coming threatens danger to us.
The Etruscan palace stands only across the
city;
but etiquette compels what discretion
would refuse,
so Lucretia leads Prince
Tarquinius to his chamber,
and with decorum
wishes him...
Good night, your Highness.
Then Bianca with that rude politeness at
which a servant can excel, curtseys and says:
Good night, your Highness.
Whilst Lucia, standing tip-toe in her eyes,
curtseys lower than the rest,
and shyly bids the
Prince:
Good night, your Highness.
And Tarquinius, with true Etruscan grace,
bows over Lucretia’s hand,
then lifts it with slow deliberation to his lips...
Good night, Lucretia.
And then all, with due formality,
wish each
other a final:
Good night, your Highness.
Good night, Lucretia.
She sleeps as a rose upon the night.
And light as a lily that floats on a lake
Her eyelids lie over her dreaming eyes
as they rake the shallows and drag the deep
for the sunken treasures of heavy sleep.
Thus, sleeps Lucretia.
When Tarquinius desires,
then Tarquinius will dare.
The shadows of the night conspire
to blind his conscience and assist desire.
Panther agile and panther virile,
the Prince steals through the silent hall.
And with all the alacrity of thought
he crosses the unlit gallery.
Where a bust of Collatinus
stares at him with impotent blind eyes.
Now he is passing Bianca’s door.
Wake up old woman! Warn your mistress!
See how lust hides itself.
It stands like a sentinel,
then moves with
stealth.
The pity is that sin has so much grace
it moves like virtue. Back Tarquinius!
Thus sleeps Lucretia...
Within this frail crucible of light
like a chrysalis contained
within its silk oblivion.
How lucky is this little light,
it knows her nakedness
and when it’s extinguished
it envelops her as darkness
then lies with her as night.
Loveliness like this is never chaste;
if not enjoyed, it is just waste!
Wake up, Lucretia!
No! Sleep and outrace Tarquinius’ horse
and be with your Lord Collatinus.
Sleep on, Lucretia! Sleep on, Lucretia!
As blood red rubies
set in ebony
her lips illumine
the black lake of night.
To wake Lucretia with a kiss
would put Tarquinius asleep awhile.
Her lips receive Tarquinius
she dreaming of Collatinus.
And desiring him draws down Tarquinius
and wakes to kiss again and...
Lucretia!
What do you want?
You!
What do you want from me?
Me! What do you fear?
You!
In the forest of my dreams
you have always been the Tiger.
Give me your lips
then let my eyes
see their first element
which is
your eyes.
No!
Give me your lips
then let me rise
to my first sepulchre,
which is
your thighs.
No! Never!
Give me your lips
then let me rest
on the oblivion
which is
your breast.
No!
Give me!
No! What you have taken
never can you be given!
Would you have given?
How could I give, Tarquinius,
since I have given to Collatinus,
in whom I am, wholly;
with whom I am, only;
and without whom I am, lonely?
Yet the linnet in your eyes
lifts with desire,
and the cherries of your lips
are wet with wanting.
Can you deny your blood’s dumb pleading?
Yes, I deny.
Through April eyes
your young blood sighs;
and denies
refusal
and denial of your lips’ frail lies.
No, you lie!
Can you refuse your blood’s desiring?
Yes, I refuse!
Lucretia!
I refuse!
Can you deny?
I deny!
Your blood denies!
You lie, you lie!
Lucretia!
Oh, my beloved Collatinus,
you have loved so well
you have tuned my body
to the chaste note of a silver lute
and thus you have made my blood
keep the same measure
as your love’s own purity.
For pity’s sake, please go!
Loveliness like this
cannot be chaste
unless all men are blind!
Too late, Lucretia, too late!
Easier stem the Tiber’s flood
than to calm my angry blood
which coursing to the ocean of your eyes
rages for the quietus of your thighs.
Is this the Prince of Rome?
I am your Prince!
Passion’s a slave and not a Prince!
Then release me!
What peace can passion find?
Lucretia! Lucretia!
Though I am in your arms I am beyond your reach!
Go, Tarquinius!
Go, Tarquinius,
before the cool fruit of her breasts
burns your hand
and consumes your heart with that fire
which is only quenched by more desire.
Go, Tarquinius! Go!
Go, Tarquinius,
before your nearness
tempts Lucretia to yield
to your strong maleness.
Beauty is all
in life!
It has the peace
of death.
If beauty leads to this,
beauty is sin.
Though my blood’s dumb
it speaks.
Thongh my blood’s blind
it finds.
I am his, not yours.
Beauty so pure
is cruel.
Throngh your eyes’ tears
I weep.
For your lips’ fire
I thirst.
For your breast’s peace
I fight.
Love’s indivisible, love’s indivisible!
Go! Tarquinius,
whilst passion is still proud
and before your lust is spent
humbled with heavy shame.
If you do not repent
time itself cannot
erase this moment from your name.
I hold the knife
but bleed.
Though I have won
I’m lost.
Give me my soul
again;
in your veins’ sleep
my rest.
No!
Give me my birth
again
out of your loins
of pain!
Thongh I must give
I take.
For pity’s sake, Tarquinius, Go!
Poised like a dart.
At the heart of woman.
Man climbs towards his God,
Then falls to his lonely hell.
See how the rampant centaur mounts the sky
and serves the sun with all its seed of stars.
Now the great river underneath the ground
flows through Lucretia and Tarquinius is
drowned.
Here in this scene you see
virtue assailed by sin
with strength triumphing
all this is endless
sorrow andpain for Him.
Nothing impure survives,
all passion perishes,
virtue has one desire
to let its blood flow
back to the wounds of Christ.
She whom the world denies,
Mary, Mother of God,
help us to lift this sin
which is our nature
and is the Cross to Him.
She whom the world denies
Mary most chaste and pure,
help us to find your love
which is His Spirit
flowing to us from Him.
Oh! What a lovely day!
Look how the energetic sun
drags the sluggard dawn from bed,
and flings the windows wide upon the world.
Oh! What a lovely morning!
And how light the soft mulberry mist
lifts and floats over the silver Tiber.
It’s going to be hot, unbearably hot,
and by evening it will thunder.
Oh! What a lovely day!
Listen how the larks spill
their song and let it fall
over the city like a waterfall.
Oh! This is the day I’ve grown to.
Our Lady Lucretia is sleeping heavily this
lovely morning. Shall I wake her?
No, don’t disturb her.
It isn’t often she sleeps so well
forever fretting for Collatinus.
I often wonder whether Lucretia’s love
is the flower of her beauty,
or whether her loveliness
is the flower of her love.
For in her both love and beauty
are transformed to grace.
Hush! Here she comes.
Good morning, my lady.
I hope you had happy dreams.
If it were all a dream
then waking would be less a nightmare.
Did you sleep well?
As heavily as death.
Look, what a lovely day it is,
and see how wonderful are all these flowers.
Yes, what a lovely day it is.
And how wonderful are all these flowers.
You have arranged them prettily.
But we have left his lordship’s favourite
flowers for you to do.
How kind of you.
where are they?
Here, my lady.
The most perfect orchids I have ever seen.
How hideous!
Take them away!
But, my lady, they are such lovely flowers!
These are the orchids you have grown.
Take them away, I tell you!
Oh! Monstrous flower!
Oh! Hideous hour!
Lucia, go send a messenger to my Lord
Collatinus.
What are you waiting for, girl? Go!
What message, Madam,
shall I give the messenger
to take to Lord Collatinus?
Give him this orchid.
Tell him I find its purity apt;
and that its petals contain
woman’s pleasure and woman’s pain,
and all of Lucretia’s shame.
Give him this orchid
and tell him a Roman harlot sent it.
And tell him to ride straight to her.
TelI him to come home. Go!
No! Wait, tell the messenger to take my love.
Yes, give my love to the messenger,
give my love to the stable boy,
and to the coachman, too.
And hurry, hurry, for all men love
the chaste Lucretia.
Shall I throw the rest away, Madam?
No, I will arrange them.
Here are the flowers.
Flowers bring to every year
the same perfection;
even their root and leaf keep
solemn vow in pretty detail.
Flowers alone are chaste
for their beauty is so brief
Years are their love
and time’s their thief.
Women bring to every man
the same defection;
even their love’s debauched
by vanity or flattery.
Flowers alone are chaste.
Let their pureness show my grief
to hide my shame
and be my wreath.
My child, you have made a wreath.
That is how you taught me as a child
to weave the wild flowers together.
Do you remember yesterday
that was a hundred years ago?
Do you remember?
Yes, I remember!
I remember when her hair
fell like a waterfall of night
over her white shoulders.
And when her ivory breasts
first leaned from her ivory tree.
And I remember how
she ran down the garden of her eyes
to meet Collatinus.
Yes, I remember, I remember...
You were right. Tarquinius took one of the horses.
What did you tell the messenger?
Lord Collatinus to come immediately.
He must not come. Words can do more harm
than good.
Only time can heal. Has the messenger gone?
Not yet.
Then go and stop him. Quick, do as I say.
But Lucretia said...
Do as I say, quick! Hurry!
Sometimes a good servant
should forget an order
and royalty should disobey.
Sometimes a servant
knows better than her mistress,
when she is servant to her heart’s distress.
Did you stop him?
It was too late.
Too late?
Lord Collatinus is here.
Collatinus? Alone?
No, Junius rode with him.
Oh God, why should he come now?
Where is Lucretia?
Tell me,
where is your Lady Lucretia?
She is well.
Then why was the messenger sent to me?
No messenger left here.
You’re lying.
Where is Lucretia?
Asleep. She had a restless night
Why did you not come to greet us at the gate?
Perhaps they were frightened that Tarquinius had come back.
Has Tarquinius been here?
Answer me!
Oh, do not ask, my Lord.
Tarquinius here?
Last night I heard him gallop from the camp
and I watched for his return, fearing his jealousy
of you. He came back at dawn with his horse
foundered, so I came to warn you.
Too late, Junius, too late, too late.
Lucretia! Lucretia!
O, never again must we two dare to part.
For we are of one another
and between us
there is one heart.
To love as we loved
was to be never but as moiety;
to love as we loved
was to die, daily with anxiety;
to love as we loved was to live, on the edge of tragedy.
Now there is no sea deep enough
to drown my shame;
now there is no earth heavy enough
to hide my shame;
now there is no sun strong enough
to lift this shadow;
now there is no night dark enough
to hide this shadow.
Dear heart, look into my eyes,
can you not see the shadow?
In your eyes I see
only the image of eternity
and a tear which has no shadow.
Then turn away, for I must tell
though telling will
turn your tender eyes to stone
and rake your heart and bring the bones
of grief through the rags of sorrow.
Last night Tarquinius ravished me
and took his peace from me,
and tore the fabric of our love.
What we had woven
Tarquinius has broken.
What I have spoken
never can be forgotten.
Oh, my love, our love was too rare
for life to tolerate or fate forbear from soiling.
For me this shame, for you this sorrow.
If spirit’s not given, there is no need of shame.
Lust is all taking – in that there’s shame.
What Tarquinius has taken
can be forgotten;
What Lucretia has given
can be forgiven.
Even great love’s too frail
to bear the weight of shadows.
Now I’ll be forever chaste,
with only death to ravish me.
See, how my wanton blood
washes my shame away!
This dead hand lets fall
all that my heart held when full
when it played like a fountain, prodigal
with love liberal,
wasteful.
So brief is beauty.
Is this it all? It is all!
Romans arise!
See what the Etruscans have done!
Here lies the chaste Lucretia, dead,
and by Tarquinius ravished.
Now let her body be
borne through our city.
Destroyed by beauty
their throne will fall. I will rule!
She lived with too much grace to be
of our crude humanity.
For even our shame’s refined
by her purity of mind.
Now place the wreath about her head
and let the sentinels of the dead
guard the grave where our Lucretia lies.
So brief is beauty.
Why was it begun? It is done!
Beauty is the hoof of an unbroken filly
which thundering up to the hazel hedge
leaps into the sun,
and is gone.
So brief is beauty.
Why was it begun? It is done!
They have no need of life to live;
they have no need of lips to love;
they have no need of death to die
in their love all’s dissolved
in their love all’s resolved.
O, what is there but love?
Love is the whole. It is all!
How is it possible that she
being so pure should die!
How is it possible that we
grieving for her should live?
So brief is beauty.
Is this it all? It is all! It is all!
Is it all? Is all this suffering and pain
is this in vain?
Does this old world grow old
in sin alone?
Can we attain
nothing
but wider oceans of our own tears?
And it, can it gain
nothing
but drier deserts of forgotten years?
For this did I
see
with my undying eye
his warm blood spill
upon that hill
and dry upon that Cross?
Is this all loss?
Are we lost?
Answer us
or let us
die
in our wilderness.
Is it all?
Is this it all?
It is not all.
Though our nature’s still as frail
and we still fall
and that great crowd’s no less
Along that road
endless and uphill;
for now
He bears our sin and does not fall
and He, carrying all
turns round
stoned with our doubt
and then forgives us
all.
For us did He
live with such humility;
For us did He
die
that we might live, and He forgive
wounds that we make
and scars that we are.
In His Passion
is our hope
Jesus Christ, Saviour.
He is all! He is all!
Since Time commenced or Life began
great Love has been defiled by Fate or Man.
Now with worn words
and these brief notes
we try
to harness song to human tragedy.
