Hyacinths Painting

Hyacinths spellbound in our Eyes 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. 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. 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. 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.