st the pure sky.

Many are the revelers;
Few are the thyrsus-bearers;
And sole is Dionysus.

This I inscribe to you,
Singer,
In memory of the crags of Delphi
And the Thessalian vales beyond.

EMANUEL MORGAN
_Opus 40_

TWO cocktails round a smile,
A grapefruit after grace,
Flowers in an aisle
. . . Were your face.

A strap in a street-car,
A sea-fan on the sand,
A beer on a bar
. . . Were your hand

The pillar of a porch,
The tapering of an egg,
The pine of a torch
. . . Were your leg.--

Sun on the Hellespont,
White swimmers in the bowl
Of the baptismal font
Are your soul.

ANNE KNISH
_Opus 88_

SO we came back again
After some years--
Just revisiting
The scenes of our sin.
Nothing is there but the garden;
And we had expected
That we would be there.

I heard a wind blowing
Down the sky.
It came with heavy auguries
And passed.
There was a soothsayer once in Rome
Who on a white altar
Inspected the purple entrails of victims.

EMANUEL MORGAN
_Opus 47_

GIVER of bribes in the brightness of morning,
Cities have wavered and rocked and gone down . . .
But the lamps of the altars hang round you, adorning
The niche of your neck and the drift of your gown.

O bribe-giver, marked with purple metal--
Cut in your naked contentment there shows
On the curve of your breast one carven petal
From heaven's impenetrable rose!

You open the window to myriad windows,
The high triangular door of the world . . .
Till the walls and the roofs and the curious keystone,
The carven rose with its petals uncurled,

Are swayed in the swathe of the uppermost ether,
Where stars are the columns upholding a dome,
And the edifice rolls on a corner of ocean,
Lifts on a wave, poises on foam . . .

We stand on the rose, we are images golden,
We move interchanging, attaining one crest:
One chin and one mouth and one nose and one forehead,
One mouth and one chin and one neck and one breast . . .

I pull you apart from me, struggle to bind you,
I free you, I rend you in seven great rays . . .
And we cling to them all . . . but we lose them, and slowly--
We slip with the rainbow down the blue bays.

ANNE KNISH
_Opus 122_

UPSTAIRS there lies a sodden thing
Sleeping.
Soon it will come down
And drink coffee.
I shall have to smile at it across the table.
How can I?
For I know tha