MIDAS and HIS DAUGHTER

Otago Daily Times, Issue 26034, 24 December 1945, Page 3

MIDAS and HIS DAUGHTER

—By MERVAL CONNELLY

Oh, give me bac\ my lovely daughter, once more breathing breath, Reviv.e this mocking statue standing cold in golden death. Her laugh was as light as a bird’s bright wing, Of delicate texture and liltingly made. Her eyes had brown pansies asleep in their depths, Tranquil and cool ’neath her lashes’ shade. \ Weep, 0 trees, and hang your shaggy heads in heavy grief, Her snowdrop brow is colder now than your last falling leaf. All music melts to silence, gold stays gold. Truly my natal prophecies foretold These years of splendour. I saw the hours recede Like tide-turned waves; and each dim dawning day In larger mounds the coins uncounted lay. Magic the moment when my hands first knew A strange alchemic madness driving through Their veins: the golden touch and wizard skill Of transmutation servant to my will. I ran from room to room in ecstasy, My superstitious guards afraid of me, Leaving behind me drapings fold on fold Suddenly stiff in perfect cloth of gold. Loudly I called my little daughter’s name, Swiftly, in a cloud of curls, she came. My speech broke in me as I bent and pressed My lips upon her cheek, and fear possessed My heart. She changed. I felt her skin become A metal substance and her eyes were dumb. No nightmare terror raging through the chill Uncharted land of sleep could ever fill My mind with any doom to equal this: My daughter’s flesh transmuted by my kiss. Forever carved in solemn gold she’ll stand, Two golden roses fadeless in her hand. Be silent, little coloured birds, whose secret songs she learned, Her eager ears from flower-flesh to sculptured gold have turned. Cursed is the bitter gold I craved with wild Desire. Cursed is the gold that holds my child In metal bondage. Cursed with greying grief Am I, Midas, rich beyond belief, Yet poorer than my meanest slave who knows The blessed comfort of a child who grows Each day more lovely in his grateful eyes Until her dear enchantments pale the skies. Oh, heart’s bright daughter into coldness sold, I’ll shrive my greedy soul from lust of gold. Immortal beauty is a frozen thing Compared with living lips that laugh and sing; And this dead statue with its metal face A rigid image of your youthful grace.