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Great was the chase with the hounds for the unattainable meaning
Czeslaw Milosz, Winter

Actaeon’s fingers are spring leaves
  in a light breeze on the lyre-strings,
   the outward echo of how a surgeon touches
the heart’s web of arteries and veins.
  The lord and lady, warriors, dogs, servants,
   the roar of flames in the hall still
as he noses a spoor of song to the story’s lair
  where a man half animal waits,
   or heroes clash sword to shield,
or a woman and her lover thrash
  where her angry mate enmeshes them.
   None stir: what loss triumph shame
defines a life that echoes their own?

He leaves them late,
  the flare of truth replaced
   by twined flesh and lovecries.
Black streets, a simple room, old maidservant,
  bread and water, payment tossed aside -
   he wants another gold.
His pupils come at first light, slight boys
  to teens whose shoulders thicken
   who chafe to be men, lethal and heroic,
bulls with girls.
  But Actaeon leads them like wild horses
   around and around a corral
with a rope of fables.
 This world he says is a story
   waiting to have its meaning laid bare.
Listen - and listen: look and look until
  the breeze becomes words, the shudder
   of leaves, flesh, the river murmur,
dialogue, stone a Yea! or Nay!

They leave aroused, the commonplace
  given a mysterious sheen.
   On impulse he calls his old hound,
back bent like a bow,
  and walks under the noon blaze
   the same white as the streets
where so many hide behind their walls, wise
  to avoid being caught in some moment
   life writes in red,
to be instead the audience stories feed.

He reaches the forest where even shade is hot.
  The hound laps water from the stream
   like a machine.
Actaeon edges along the bank as though
  tracking some scent to its source.
   When the waters grow wide and calm
a small stream courses off.
  Something as light as spring leaves
   in a light breeze
touches his neck and makes his hair rise:
  he whirls - no one - someone -
   something
he senses that does not act
  but watches without pity or cruelty,
   amused, sad, willess.
The hound’s hair ridges down his back.
                                                           Come
  he commands, choosing the unknown way.
   The beast follows,
back straightened, a snarl gleaming in his eyes.

Then Actaeon finds himself hurrying until
  branch whipped, thorn torn,
   his breath a curlew’s whistle,
his heart a roar of waves, he falls
  against the hard Noof the earth
   and jams moss muskily into his mouth.
When he looks up, the grotto.
  A small rivulet arches over a cliff,
   the movement of sun on water spring leaves
in a light breeze.
  She is there,
   flesh flawless.

He gapes, and stands carelessly, staring.

  Their eyes meet and he understands

She is a young girl on her bridal bed,
the shy husband,
  their tremble, penetration, joy:
   and She is a sword raised high,
its perfect edge,
  a stream of blood blurring its sheen,
   a head rolling on the ground;
boys who give grace its meaning
  as they arch and ache against one another
   in the gymnasium;
the smoke of incense, of crematoria,
  bitter flesh driven unwilling to the fire,
   the fire;
the choking dust across the battlefield,
  the blind men, thrusts, wounds,
   the flowers around their graves,
the spring leaves, the light breeze;
  the newborn’s howl,
   its mother’s smile,
the birth blood wiped from a new face;
  the whitecaps on the sea, the sea,
   the wave that swallows men in their boats,
the swallowed men,
  the fish that gnaw them bone white,
   the bones:
and the grieving heart that begins again,
  that risks love to find love -
   and love’s betrayal.
She lets all wounds be forgotten
  and tirelessly gnaws the heart’s red bone,
   bringing all to perfection,
kind or cruel, Her beauty
  the only mold,
   the truth at the end and beginning
of every story.

Actaeon does not reflect
  A man must do what he can,
   and beyond that be content
- no, he has found what he wants
  and screams, and runs

   runs as though horns grow from his head
and an animal bellow pours from his throat,
  as though hounds leap to the chase,
   as though he is the hounds and the hunted,
the teeth, the torn flesh,
  the terror, bright blood
   and the final heartful, heart-rending
horror, and delight.