Moore, T. Sturge (1870 - 1944) Lines on Titian's "Bacchanal" in the Prado at Madrid She naked lies asleep beside the wine That in a rill wanders through moss and flowers; Her head thrown, and her hair, back o'er an urn Whose metal glints from under crimpled gold Of lately bound-up locks; while her flushed face Breathes up toward open sky with fast-closed lids, As though, half-conscious, her complexion knew Where stirred the tree-tops, where the blue was vast. One arm, wrapped in a soft white crumpled vest, An empty wine-dish guards; her breasts are young; Young, although massive, torso, loins and thighs, All hued as clouds are that the morning face. Beside her foot three shadowed blue flowers glow, Speedwell, or gentian, or some now lost gem That then was found in Crete; some gem now lost, Some precious flower, that then endeared the isles To hearts of travelling gods and sailor princes. Though friends of such an one here revel now, And laugh, carouse, and dance, she hears them not; Brown satyrs, maenads, men, these sing; and hark! Birds sing, the sea is sighing, and the woods Do sound as lovers love to hear them: Sleep, Sleep, oh, and wake no more; Bacchus has kissed Thy lips, thine eyes, thy brow; thy joy and his But lately were as one, therefore sleep on: Be all past woes forgotten in thy dream! This noisy crew still haunts thee; but unheard They sing, and birds are singing; thou dost sleep: These dance, carouse, and pledge each other's joy; Slowly the tree-tops in the wind's embrace, Dance too; lush branches and gay vestures float, Float, wave and rustle, sighing to the wind; But thou art still; thou sleepest, art divine. Upon the purple clusters, in his drowse, The vast Silenus rolls; and through the grass The red juice trickles, forming rills and streams; Comes down cascading, prattles past thy couch, And winds on sea-ward; thou remainest, thou, Perfectly still remainest and dost sleep. These soon will leave thee, satyr, maenad, faun, Light-hearted young folk, these will never stay Past sundown nor out-watch the pale long eve, But troop afar with fainter riot and song . Then, when thou art alone and the wind dropped, When the night finds thee, mayst thou still be sleeping! She then, for ever and for aye, will take thee To her deep dwelling and unechoing halls; How could she leave thee? she who owns them all Owns all the stars, whose beauty is complete, Whose joy is perfect, and whose home is peace; While all their duty is to shine for love.