Diana, the Huntress

after Augustus Saint-Gaudens, “Diana Half Size” (1892-94)

A world of giants: liberators, conquerers,
Too tall for ceilings, sized for cities, and cold,
Clothed in bronze or stone, icy skins of History.
And you, taller. You topped towers
Until they took you down, ashamed. Actaeon
Rightly suffered for the seeing, yet we unveil
Like madmen, mad for your taut torso, which bends
In perfect torsion toward your thighs,
Which recede to pointed toes, on dainty feet.
We should be punished to merely glimpse
The print those pads press into river’s mud.
But here some man, not tall, can look up at you
With pen in hand for many hours, as the sun
Stalks from north to north. Sun, too, is mad
For an arm that, greenly raised to greet it,
Fires eternal arrow into its flame. Grateful light
Caressing compact arc of shoulder, graceful
Yes, but charged more with fury than any bow.
A man may learn from you that fury
To hit its mark must be born of balance.
He may learn, if he is not beyond the learning,
That to gaze on beauty is to be changed, to be
Astounded, to be hounded, and then devoured.

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