Melanion's Song

Too quick was she for any man
to catch her once she went and ran;
too nimble for an honest win
was Atalanta, swift as sin.

No speed had he to catch her running,
but did possess the wit and cunning
to dare give his beloved chase;
Hippomenes, the fair of face.

His prayer called on she whose name
the heart of any man could tame
without delay she came unseen;
Aphrodite, passion's queen.

Three golden apples he received
and with a plan to win conceived
he challenged her to one last race
which she should fail, by goddess's grace.

Then at a whistle off they sped;
he soon behind, and she ahead-
the fastest runner in the land
until an apple hit the sand.

And on a fancy then she turned
for in her a strange longing burned
to retrieve this shining treasure
as a keepsake for her pleasure.

So the young man stole the lead
spurred on by his burning need
for speedy triumph and for life;
to make the agile girl his wife.

But the nimble nymph was close behind
with an odd new yearning in her mind;
not for Apollo's crown upon her head
but for a husband and a marriage bed.

The young man's hair was pale and bright,
his skin was of the fairest white-
a virile body; strong and lean,
his cloudy eyes were kind and keen.

Yet laurel leaves at last began
to take hold of her heart again;
much like Daphne she rushed on,
the challenger's brief chance soon gone.

A second apple hit the track
and once again she headed back
to fetch the orb inaureoled;
an alluring apple all of gold.

Her lover still sped on ahead
now thinking they would surely wed,
although now rather short of breath
he burst forth on the wings of Death.

Not likely would she take defeat
from any man who chose to cheat
her out of glory fair and right;
she passed him like a flash of light.

Now with the finish in full view
the young man saw his chance and threw
the final apple far afield
with certainty that she would yield.

This last temptation made her sway
her fickle force of will made way
for irresistible desire
consuming her like blazing fire.

Thus burdened with Love's golden load
she laboured on along the road;
for heavy was the trove she bore,
her odds at victory no more.

And so through guile and clever ruse
the golden boy had won his muse;
while she in turn could keep her prize
and relished in such sweet demise.

So, too, do your words work their way
and leave my mind in disarray-
all phrases meant to be bemusing,
and each comment for confusing.

This verbal match an equal race
performed with profound wit and grace;
every onslaught met with parry
quieting the wish to tarry.

If making love is done in words
then we are two white-wingèd birds
perpetually joined in song,
caught up in duet all day long.

We much resemble those who dwell
for ever under divine spell,
forced to roar their passion's pleas;
Atalanta, and Hippomenes.