By Saint Callixtus' Tomb

For Neyan Watts Stevens

The Rock shed Blood. That Christian Heresy

Clothed lean Antinous, filled willows with shame;

Silenced the dryads, doused the temple's flame.

While fountains cracked, while tritons drowned in dust,

The savage Virgin made the heart her prey.

Yet Rome's the image and the mirror too.

Dance on, sweet Rome. Old Roman love must play

Upon the Cross her antique theme,

Though God and all his angels stoop to raise

Music and singer from the dust.

The streets run mad as once in a prophet's dream;

The saints embrace, the holy statues bleed

Slaughtered at sea; flaming in forest feed

The eternal fire: the Roman heart ablaze.

And nymphs still sing from darkness until Day.