P.

The wind is coming down in broad sheets, and the pages of rain
Slap against me; the whole world seems to be
Rifling through the book of seasons,
But it can't find what it wants
So it thunders and storms. Acharnos,
What excuse can you have to dawdle in this weather?
I have my sheep, my ranging herds, huddled like a clump
Of cotton by that cliff, but where's your farm?

A.

Peleon, pull the ragged cusps of your cloak
Closer in to the bristling edges of your neck
And try to smooth the hairs with warmth. This is a time for wolves
And I wouldn't be out wandering so late
Or so recklessly but for my Ludia. Do you know the tale?

P.

No, but here; let's duck under this tree, see
The long boughs drip with their bounty of rain, but the grasses beneath
Have less than their fair share, just as the farmer who comes before dawn
Gets the brunt of the work to the darkness, but the drunkard
Who wanders in late leaves as early, when his work's barely done; so this indolent grass
Is dry, ripe, and richer than the spreading of fur, better for a sit
Than soft sapplings. But with the same congenial air that these leaves,
When the rain falls off, rustle like a tremorous sigh
To disrobe themselves of their thirsted drink
And drip it to the earth that's spare below, so I'll share with you
Honeycakes, a tug of wine, and some of the mealy apples
I've been gathering all morning, the fallen from the trees;
All I ask in return is the news.

A.

Please, your kindness knows no bounds;
There are tribes in the north and men,
Savages, who'd sooner strip a wanderer's skin than think
To ask if he be friend or foe. So they say
That Pentheus' own mother ripped his head
Clear off his spine, and though his lips were gaping with her name,
The blood drained from his throat right with the breath;
Then there's Hercules who plunged the spear in a lover's breast
(And you might know such bitter grief, Apollo), nor are you unaware
That Odysseus, much sogged with wine dark seas,
Received no loving welcome from his wife --
Fearful of his life, he had to court her,
Not, like suitors, with a lyre,
But rather by the plectrum of a bow!

P.

We all know such stories as these, Acharnes, for it has always been our habit
On stormy days to sit by our hearths
While the doors cake up with soot, and the winds, impious,
Lash the thresholds so the candles flicker like the flame while rain
Begins to spot the sodden sills and shades of lain
Shudder, or fill with lighter light, at the pain of each passing bolt
-- Then the hunger of thunder -- to sit and tell each other stories of days
Ancient or not so passing long, wizened and heavy with Aeneas' rage,
The clement Achilles, or perhaps decked out in freshly fitting arms, heroic deeds
That shine like the breast-piece on their chests, or then again
The plunging swords of civil war, famines, plagues; and crops too,
And often the rising of stars; In short, any wisdom and much besides
We're accustomed to know.
But we two are not now father and son, nor knitting daughter
At a mother's stool; not cowgirls milking cows, nor errant maids
Discussing lover's tricks, but men, and sons of men,
And so are far from the idle hearth;
So share no brilliant gems, or erudite lessons as these,
But bring your lips to the news!

A.

I met a girl by the springs, Peleon, when the autumn
Burned with with dying summer's flames
And seared the leaves a golden red, brown
Dark like embers, black as a starry night, blue
As the cusps of wavering lakes, surrounded
By mossy bits of green. She was stooped
Above those brilliant waters, and I saw her face
First by reflection, a kind of pale grace
Trembling on the surface of the pool; then white broke
And fled in outward ripples, then replaced
With the simple brown of a brown-filled urn; this naiad queen
Held not a royalty of art, a fancy gem invested
With battling furies composed in a circular line
Of grief by raging arms, nor the pulse
Of Orestes' love, unspeakable but
Brown, the simple feel of clay, which drank
The water, bubbled, and deluge
Of deep delight came in its being. When she raised the cup
Like a Caratid over her head, I knelt and made her service
On the altars of my heart; I poured out
The intoxicating wine of my grief, slew
The burdensome beast of my sorrows, cut the throat of my past
And bathed in the flames of future love. She stood
Not now so still, but perked up like a deer, who, grazing
Notes the hunter's nod, a bristle runs across her fur, her ears
Perk, she waits, then runs, and would have run
But for the blessed weight of the fresh spring's sip.