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| David Teniers the Elder Birth of Adonis ca. 1600-1605 oil on copper Städel Museum, Frankfurt |
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| Carlo Cignani Adonis ca. 1658-65 oil on canvas Galleria Sabauda, Turin |
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| Josse de Pape Venus and Adonis 1629 oil on canvas Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam |
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| Johann Heiss Venus and Adonis ca. 1675-80 oil on canvas Deutsche Barockgalerie, Augsburg |
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| Caspar Freisinger Venus and Adonis 1589 drawing Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest |
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| Giulio Romano Venus and Adonis 1516 drawing (study for fresco) Graphische Sammlung Albertina, Vienna |
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| Hendrik Goltzius Venus and Adonis 1614 oil on canvas Alte Pinakothek, Munich |
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| Luca Cambiaso Venus and Adonis ca. 1565-68 oil on canvas Galleria Borghese, Rome |
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| Hendrick de Clerck Venus and Adonis ca. 1600 oil on canvas Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk, Virginia |
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| Jan van Kessel the Elder Venus and Adonis in Garland 1653 oil on panel Staatsgalerie Flämische Barockmalerei im Schloss Neuburg |
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| Aegidius Sadeler Venus and Adonis ca. 1606-1610 oil on copper Národní Galerie, Prague |
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| Mattheus Terwesten Venus and Adonis ca. 1718 oil on canvas Detroit Institute of Arts |
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| Paolo Veronese after Titian Venus and Adonis ca. 1563-65 oil on canvas Deutsche Barockgalerie, Augsburg |
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| Benjamin West Death of Adonis 1768 oil on canvas Carnegie Museum of Art, Pittsburgh |
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| Giulio Carpioni Venus and Nymphs weeping for dead Adonis ca. 1656-63 oil on canvas Národní Galerie, Prague |
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| Giulio Carpioni Funeral of Adonis ca. 1656-63 oil on canvas Národní Galerie, Prague |
St. Malachy
In November, in the days to remember the dead
When air smells cold as earth,
St. Malachy, who is very old, gets up,
Parts the thin curtain of trees and dawns upon our land.
His coat is filled with drops of rain, and he is bearded
With all the seas of Poseidon.
(Is it a crozier, or a trident in his hand?)
With all the seas of Poseidon.
(Is it a crozier, or a trident in his hand?)
He weeps against the gothic window, and the empty cloister
Mourns like an ocean shell.
Two bells in the steeple
Talk faintly to the old stranger
And the tower considers his waters.
Two bells in the steeple
Talk faintly to the old stranger
And the tower considers his waters.
"I have been sent to see my festival," (his cavern speaks!)
"For I am the saint of the day.
Shall I shake the drops from my locks and stand in your transept,
Or, leaving you, rest in the silence of history?"
So the bells rang and we opened the antiphoners
And the wrens and larks flew up out of the pages.
"For I am the saint of the day.
Shall I shake the drops from my locks and stand in your transept,
Or, leaving you, rest in the silence of history?"
So the bells rang and we opened the antiphoners
And the wrens and larks flew up out of the pages.
Our thoughts became lambs. Our hearts swam like seas.
One monk believed that we should sing to him
Some stone-age hymn
Or something in the giant language.
So we played to him in the plainsong of the giant Gregory
So we played to him in the plainsong of the giant Gregory
And oceans of Scripture sang upon bony Eire.
Then the last salvage of flowers
(Fostered under glass after the gardens foundered)
Held up their little lanterns on Malachy's altar
Then the last salvage of flowers
(Fostered under glass after the gardens foundered)
Held up their little lanterns on Malachy's altar
To peer into his wooden eyes before the Mass began.
Rain sighed down the sides of the stone church.
Rain sighed down the sides of the stone church.
Storms sailed by all day in battle fleets.
At five o'clock, when we tried to see the sun, the speechless visitor
At five o'clock, when we tried to see the sun, the speechless visitor
Sighed and arose and shook the humus from his feet
And with his trident stirred our trees
And left down-wood, shaking some drops upon the ground.
Thus copper flames fall, tongues of fire fall
The leaves in hundred fall upon his passing
While night sends down her dreadnought darkness
Upon this spurious Pentecost.
And the Melchisedec of our year's end
Thus copper flames fall, tongues of fire fall
The leaves in hundred fall upon his passing
While night sends down her dreadnought darkness
Upon this spurious Pentecost.
And the Melchisedec of our year's end
Who came without a parent, leaves without a trace,
And rain comes rattling down upon our forest
Like the doors of a country jail.
And rain comes rattling down upon our forest
Like the doors of a country jail.
– Thomas Merton (1949)