Apollo and Daphne

His first love was Daphne, daughter of Peneus, which no blind chance gave, but the cruel wrath of Cupid. The Delian god, still proud from the conquered serpent, had seen him bending his bow with tightened cord, and said: "What business have you, wanton boy, with warlike arms? Arms like those become my shoulders, sure of aim, that never miss the wild beasts, never miss the foe — I, who just now destroyed the swollen Python with countless arrows, covering whole acres of ground. Be content to kindle whatever fires are hidden behind your little torch, and leave glory to me." Venus' son answered: "May your bow hit everything, Phoebus — but my bow shall hit you, and by as much as all living things are less than gods." He spoke, and, flicking his wings in the parted air, a stubborn archer, came to the shaded height of Parnassus, and from his quiver of arrows took out two of opposite work: one drives away, one kindles love.

The one that kindles is of gleaming gold, with a sharp point, well polished: the other blunts, with lead beneath the reed. That one the god drove into Peneus' daughter; this one struck Apollo to the marrow of his pierced bone. At once the one loves, and longs to be united; the other flies from the very name of lover, rejoicing in the depths of shaded woods, in the spoils of wild beasts, like another Diana, a fillet binding her hair that barely lies. Many would have her; she would not have suitors, unmoved and unknown to any man, roaming the pathless thickets, caring nothing for Hymen, nor for what love means. Often would her father say: "You owe me a son-in-law, my child." Often her father: "You owe me grandchildren, my daughter." She, like a crime, blushing at the very torch of marriage, would hang her fair head upon her father's neck, and beg him with the one word "let me be forever a maiden, Diana's father, grant me this": yet her beauty forbade what she desired.

Her body glowed with a beauty that did not need it. She was seen — and was loved — and was seized upon by him who loved; and he follows her flight with hope, and, as his hope flies faster than his speech, the lover is lover and pursuer. As when a Gallic hound has seen a hare in an open field, and runs with flying feet toward his promised prey, but the hare flees: he is close, he thinks he has her, his muzzle is nearly in her very flanks — she wonders if she's caught, and twists away from his snap, and is behind him still; because the others stand around her cheering, barking out their hopes; while she flees through the very midst of the teeth. So the god and the girl: his speed is hope, hers is fear.

But he who follows, carried on the wings of love, gives her no rest; presses her flight, coming closer, and his breath is hot upon her scattered hair. Her strength is gone; drained pale by the effort of the wild flight, she sees the waters of her father Peneus, and cries: "Help me, father! If your waters hold divinity, destroy this beauty by which I've pleased too well!" Her prayer was scarcely done, when a heavy numbness seized her limbs; her soft breasts were girt with a thin bark, her hair grew into leaves, her arms into branches; her feet, but now so swift, held fast by sluggish roots; her face was the tree's top: only her shining grace remained. And Phoebus loved her still. He laid his hand upon the trunk, and felt her bosom trembling still in the bark, beneath the new wood; and embraced the branches as if limbs, and kissed the wood, and the wood shrank from his kisses.

And the god said: "But since you cannot be my bride, you shall at least be my own tree. My hair, my lyre, my quiver, laurel, will always hold you. You will attend the Roman leaders, when their joyful voices sing the triumph, and the Capitol sees its long processions. You will stand as faithful guardian at Augustus' gates, before his doors, and keep watch over the oak between. And as my head is ever-young with unshorn hair, so wear, forever, the fresh honor of your leaves." Paean had done: the laurel nodded her new-made branches, and seemed to shake her treetop like a head.

His first love was Daphne, daughter of Peneus — not given by blind chance, but by the cruel anger of Cupid. The Delian god, still proud from his conquest of the serpent, had seen the boy bending his bow with a tightened cord, and said: "What business has a wanton boy with warlike arms? Arms like these befit my shoulders — shoulders sure of aim, that never miss wild beasts, never miss the enemy — I who just now destroyed the swollen Python with countless arrows, covering acres of ground. Be content to kindle whatever hidden fires your little torch holds, and leave glory to me." The son of Venus answered: "May your bow strike everything, Phoebus — but my bow shall strike you. And as much as all living things fall short of gods, by that much is my glory greater." He spoke, and flicking his wings through the parted air, a stubborn archer, he came to the shaded height of Parnassus, and took from his quiver two arrows of opposite work: one drives love away, one kindles it. The one that kindles is of gleaming gold, sharp-pointed, finely polished; the other is blunt, with lead beneath its reed. With that one he struck the daughter of Peneus; with this he pierced Apollo to the marrow of the bone. At once the one loves and longs to be united; the other flees the very name of lover, rejoicing in the depths of shaded woods, in the spoils of wild beasts — a second Diana, a fillet binding her barely-lying hair. Many wished her; she wished no suitor, unmoved, knowing no man, wandering the pathless thickets, caring nothing for Hymen or what love means. Often her father would say: "You owe me a son-in-law, my child." Often her father: "You owe me grandchildren, my daughter." She, hating the wedding torch like a crime, would hang her fair head on her father's neck, and beg him with one word: "Let me be a maiden forever — Diana's father, grant me this." Yet her beauty forbade what she desired: her body glowed with a loveliness that could not hide.

She was seen, and loved, and seized upon by him who loved; and he follows her flight with hope — and his hope flies faster than his words. The lover is lover and pursuer. As when a Gallic hound has seen a hare on the open plain and runs with flying feet toward his promised prey, while the hare flees — he is close upon her, he thinks he has her, his muzzle is almost in her flanks — while she wonders whether she is caught, and twists away from his snapping jaws, and is behind him still; because the others stand around her, cheering, barking out their hopes, and she flees through the very middle of the teeth. So the god and the girl: his speed is hope, hers is fear. But he who follows, carried on the wings of love, gives her no rest — presses her flight, ever closer, his breath hot on her scattered hair. Her strength is gone; pale, drained by the effort of the wild flight, she sees the waters of her father Peneus, and cries: "Help me, father! If your waters hold divinity, destroy this beauty by which I have pleased too well." Her prayer was hardly finished when a heavy numbness seized her limbs: her soft breasts were girded with thin bark, her hair grew into leaves, her arms into branches; her feet, so swift a moment ago, held fast in sluggish roots; her face became the tree's top. Only her shining grace remained. And Phoebus loved her still. He laid his hand upon the trunk and felt her bosom trembling still in the bark, beneath the new wood; he embraced the branches as if they were limbs, and kissed the wood — and the wood shrank from his kisses. And the god said: "But since you cannot be my bride, you shall at least be my tree. My hair, my lyre, my quiver will always hold you, laurel. You will attend the Roman leaders, when the joyful voice sings triumph, and the Capitol watches the long processions. You will stand the surest guardian at Augustus' gates, before his doors, keeping watch over the oak between. And as my head is ever-young with unshorn hair, so wear, forever, the fresh honor of your leaves." Paean had finished: the laurel nodded her new-made branches, and seemed to shake her treetop like a head.