# Poems (Eminescu)/Fifth Epistle

FIFTH EPISTLE (Delilah)
In the Bible we are told how Samson’s wife one fateful night, While he slept, his long hair shaving, severed him from all his might, That his foes might overcome him, fetter him and blind his eyes, This to show the soul that hidden ’neath a woman’s garment lies. O young man who always follow’st in her footsteps full of dreams, While the golden shield of heaven on the alleys brightly beams And the shadow’s green with laces so mysteriously are girt, O forget not thy belovèd hath short wit, though long her skirt. A midsummernight’s dream charms thee, with its beauty, fairylike; All that is in thy soul only… Ask her what she thinks, belike She will speak of ribbons, flounces, all that is the newest fashion, While thy heart is throbbing rhythmic, like an ode, with sacred passion… When her little head close nestles on thy breast, ’tis to beguile. Ah! If thou hast a heart and senses, then beware, think of Delilah!
Yes, of course, she is so charming… Like a child, so full of fun, When she laughs she has two dimples in her cheeks, and there is one On each knuckle of her fingers, she’s not lanky, lean or tall, Fashioned well to be embracèd, to be loved, adored, and all That she says is so becoming, what she does is always sweet, It is so because she does it, all perfections in her meet: If she speaks or if she’s silent, she’s delightful, only she, And if „go away“ her lips say, then her laugh says „come to me!“ Idly balancing she walketh as if listening to a song, Fondly spoiled, as if for kisses only she did always long, Towards thy lips she’ll rise on tiptoe for a heartfelt given kiss, That mysterious warmth instilling, lavishing that heav’nly bliss That a woman’s soul alone can yield with her bewitching charms… O the happiness thou findest only in her loving arms! If thou couldst but see her blushing thy whole soul would be alight — She a dreamy queen, capricious, thou a young and hopeful knight — Deeply in her eyes then looking thou wouldst unterstand and see ​What the price of life for thee is, what the price of death may be. Poisoned with sweet melancholy, spellbound as thou art, she seems Queen of queens, the fairest empress of thy world of thoughts and dreams: In thy fancy, with her tearful eyes in which her love does shine, Brighter she would seem than Venus rising from the foamy brine: In the chaos of oblivion though the hours may run so fast, For thee she’ll be always dearer every day unto the last. Vain illusions! Dost thou not see from her look, from her whole face, That her attitude is habit, and her smile but a grimace, That here all her splendid beauty wasteth like a useless thing, That her soul’s most precious treasure she is idly squandering? With its seven strings thy tuneful lyre accompanies in vain With its cadences harmonious thy melodious wailful strain; Vainly does thy mind transfigure fairylike this world of ours, Like the frost that paints on windows an embroidery of flowers, When thy heart is full of summer; vainly now thy soul endears Her proud head to sanctify it, on her soft hair fall thy tears. No, she cannot see that ’tis not thou who wantest her… in thee Is a daemon that is thirsting after her sweet light, and he Cries and laughs,—O the poor daemon—but himself he hears not, and If he longs for her ’tis only his own self to understand; So he pineth like a sculptor to whom neither arm was left, Like the great inspired composer who of hearing was bereft, While his soul was soaring upwards in the music of the spheres, Whose harmonious, rhythmic rolling in his mind he always hears. He does not ask her to offer on an altar her own life, As in olden times fell victim to the high priest’s sacred knife Many pure and lovely virgins, who with holy rites were slain, Having stood as sculptor’s models for a goddess in a fane. She might help him to discover his own self, aloft to strive, And with his own fire consumèd, to a new life to revive; With his wild unsated passion, he, inspired by her, would try, In Adonic verse, like Horace, skilfully his tongue to ply; In his dream would bring the murmur of the springs, all flowers vernal, Cooling shadows of deep forests and the stars’ bright fire eternal, And in that mysterious moment, feeling happy, in his eyes The antique blest world with glamour to new life would seem to rise, And with deepest passion kneeling he would praise, he would adore her, In her youthful eyes up looking, for her grace, he would implore her, In his arms would keep her ever, on his bosom warm infold, ​Try to thaw with long, hot kisses those unfeeling eyes so cold. If she were a marble statue, she would melt with so much love, On his knees he would entreat her, that stone heart would strive to move; Mad, with so much bliss all smothered, feeling more than words could form, More and more he now would love her, in his passion’s wildest storm.
Does she know that she might give thee a whole splendid world, if she Tried to understand thee better, plunging in thy soul’s deep sea, She would fill it with a heaven full of morning stars so bright! With coquettish smile, delighted, and with looks demure, she might Act as if she understood thee. Highly flattered are they all The eternal Beauty’s shadows to be on this earthly ball. Call her flower among the women, she’ll be pleased, but ask her who Is the one whom she would favour of the three who round her woo, And who all pretend to love her, thou wilt see that though naïve, Thy belovèd will at once be practical and positive. With thy heart and mind perhaps thou art but serving as a screen, And behind thee she’s attracting some young fop with courtly mien, While with gallant looks, coquettish, she is seeking but to shine, Captivating now a dandy, now a lewd old libertine, There’s no wonder that her spirit should be all a sad confusion, And an upstart knave impress her like the king of spades, delusion! And with thy poor spirit’s daemon she’ll feign meekness, like a nun, While when that young fop appeareth, then at once her heart is won, And at this fool’s wit and beauty she’ll be fondly marvelling.
O to dream that truth, high spirit, or some other useless thing, One small jot could change in nature, or of any help might be, This is the eternal hindrance to the truth’s great victory.
Therefore in woman’s footsteps when thou follow’st full of dreams, While the golden shield of heaven on the alleys brightly beams, And the shadows green with laces so mysteriously are girt, O forget not, thy belovèd hath short wit though long her skirt. A midsummernight’s dream charms thee, with its beauty, fairylike, All that is in thy soul only… Ask her what she thinks, belike She will speak of ribbons, flounces, all about the newest fashion, While thy heart is throbbing rhythmic, like an ode, with sacred passion, When thou see’st th’unfeeling marble, without pity’s gentle smile, Ah! If thou hast a heart and senses, go away, she is Delilah!