Louise Gluck

Hyacinth

Is that an attitude for a flower, to stand 
like a club at the walk; poor slain boy, 
is that a way to show 
gratitude to the gods? White 
with colored hearts, the tall flowers 
sway around you, all the other boys, 
in the cold spring, as the violets open. 

2 
There were no flowers in antiquity 
but boys' bodies, pale, perfectly imagined. 
So the gods sank to human shape with longing. 
In the field, in the willow grove, 
Apollo sent the courtiers away. 

3 
And from the blood of the wound 
a flower sprang, lilylike, more brilliant 
than the purples of Tyre. 
Then the god wept: his vital grief 
flooded the earth. 

4 
Beauty dies: that is the source 
of creation. Outside the ring of trees 
the courtiers could hear 
the dove's call transmit 
its uniform, its inborn sorrow— 
They stood listening, among the rustling willows. 
Was this the god's lament? 
They listened carefully. And for a short time 
all sound was sad. 

5 
There is no other immortality: 
in the cold spring, the purple violets open. 
And yet, the heart is black, 
there is its violence frankly exposed. 
Or is it not the heart at the center 
but some other word? 
And now someone is bending over them, 
meaning to gather them— 

6 
They could not wait 
in exile forever. 
Through the glittering grove 
the courtiers ran 
calling the name 
of their companion 
over the birds' noise, 
over the willows' aimless sadness. 
Well into the night they wept, 
their clear tears 
altering no earthly color.