“Lady Lilith” Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Pre Raphaelite, 1868
Of Adam’s first wife, Lilith, it is told
(The witch he loved before the gift of Eve,)
That, ere the snake’s, her sweet tongue could deceive,
And her enchanted hair was the first gold.
And still she sits, young while the earth is old,
And, subtly of herself contemplative,
Draws men to watch the bright web she can weave,
Till heart and body and life are in its hold.
The rose and poppy are her flowers; for where
Is he not found, O Lilith, whom shed scent
And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare?
Lo! as that youth’s eyes burned at thine, so went
Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck bent
And round his heart one strangling golden hair.
-Rossetti
I. The Paragon
She was beyond a thing of beauty:
Beyond a fault or single flaw,
Her resplendence as objective,
As the judgements of the law.
Spared the trials of impression,
She made comparison her thrall;
For those she had subjected,
Whom her visage would befall,
Could do nought but look unruly,
In her presence.
II. The Sentinel
She was armed with brilliance:
Her eyes hard plates of hazel and brown,
Rivaled the sun in reflection,
Whose faith and flair she wore as a crown,
And made of her air, a confection.
Tho supplication was nay a demand,
It was bequeathed to her unquestioned,
Her sight stood sentinel upon high ground,
Of her lips and perfect complexion,
Lashes; watchtowers keen and heaven bound,
And her voice was heeded as well as a gong,
Withal how quiet or small it’s sound,
For even her silence was better a song,
Than most would ever hear.
III. The Citadel
Where she stood, a citadel stay,
Sentinels of eyes and skins of clay,
It’s pillars of vain and veins gave way,
To the weight of the words she ought never say.
In walls of wood as tall as trees,
Held mind and mouth, a shallow sea,
Of tears, crestfell and gone beneath,
Her clouds of thought and rains of dreams;
A sky of suns and stars unseen.
A garden of grape on lifeless vine,
Behind the gleam and sidereal shine,
Of her eyes, which masked their weather,
Under smaller talk of wine or weather,
For, in all her beauty and worldly temper,
Expression yet seemed fruitless an endeavour .
Where she stood, a citadel stay,
Behind its walls, a garden of clay,
For beauty, it’s fruits, all but gave way,
To soilless talk, and heedless say
.
The quality of beauty is so ever a dichotomy. It is not a thing that can be measured by objectivity, yet such an object it is when a beautiful person enters a room. Its a silent acknowledgment, like some obvious thing of life you are given in knowing and recognizing. Beauty to others seems such an orderly affair, yet beauty in oneself is so chaotic. I’ve always been curious of the beautiful. How their life and their mirrors would appear in difference to mine. What does beauty bring and burden? Does beauty bear certainty of sorts, or does it make itself as a brittle bridge from madness to euphoria, in a constant cry for maintenance and upkeep. Does it consume people than people are consumed by it? Does beauty in sight make deaf the ears of those who see it? What do beautiful people make of themselves? To its own eyes, is it invisible?
Leave a Reply