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diff --git a/old/36620.txt b/old/36620.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8eec63d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/36620.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2546 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Three Hills, by +John Collings Squire and Charles Baudelaire + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Three Hills + And other Poems + +Author: John Collings Squire + Charles Baudelaire + +Release Date: July 5, 2011 [EBook #36620] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREE HILLS *** + + + + +Produced by Marc D'Hooghe & Andrea Ballat http://www.freeliterature.org + + + + +THE THREE HILLS + +AND OTHER POEMS + +BY + +J.C. SQUIRE + + +LONDON: HOWARD LATIMER LTD. + +GREAT QUEEN STREET, KINGSWAY + +MCMXIII + + + + +TO + +FRANCIS BURROWS + + + + CONTENTS + + ANTINOMIES ON A RAILWAY STATION + THE THREE HILLS + A CHANT + ARTEMIS ALTERA + STARLIGHT + FLORIAN 'S SONG + DIALOGUE + CREPUSCULAR + AT NIGHT + FOR MUSIC + THE ROOF + TREETOPS + IN THE PARK + SONG + TOWN + A MEMORIAL + FRIENDSHIP'S GARLAND--I + --II + --III + LINES ON THE EARTHLY PARADISE + ECHOES + THE FUGITIVE + IN THE ORCHARD + IN A CHAIR + A DAY + THE MIND OF MAN + A REASONABLE PROTESTATION + EPILOGUE + + TWELVE TRANSLATIONS FROM C. BAUDELAIRE + + TOUT ENTIERE + THE ALCHEMY OF GRIEF + SPLEEN + A VOYAGE TO CYTHERA + THE CRACKED BELL + THE OFFENDED MOON + TO THEODORE BANVILLE, 1842 + MUSIC + THE CATS + THE SADNESS OF THE MOON + MOESTA ET ERRABUNDA + THE OWLS + +Many of the above poems have appeared in the "British Review," the +"Eye-Witness," the "New Witness," the "Oxford and Cambridge Review," the +"New Statesman," and the "New Age," to the Editors of which thanks are +due for permission to reprint. Three of the short poems and most of the +translations are extracted from an earlier volume. + + + + + ANTINOMIES ON A RAILWAY STATION + + + As I stand waiting in the rain + For the foggy hoot of the London train, + Gazing at silent wall and lamp + And post and rail and platform damp, + What is this power that comes to my sight + That I see a night without the night, + That I see them clear, yet look them through, + The silvery things and the darkly blue, + That the solid wall seems soft as death, + A wavering and unanchored wraith, + And rails that shine and stones that stream + Unsubstantial as a dream? + What sudden door has opened so, + What hand has passed, that I should know + This moving vision not of trance + That melts the globe of circumstance, + This sight that marks not least or most + And makes a stone a passing ghost? + + Is it that a year ago + I stood upon this self-same spot; + Is it that since a year ago + The place and I have altered not; + Is it that I half forgot, + A year ago, and all despised + For a space the things that I had prized: + The race of life, the glittering show? + Is it that now a year has passed + Of vain pursuit of glittering things, + Of fruitless searching, shouting, running, + And greedy lies and candour cunning, + Here as I stand the year above + Sudden the heats and the strivings fail + And fall away, a fluctuant veil, + And the fixed familiar stones restore + The old appearance-buried core, + The moveless and essential me, + The eternal personality + Alone enduring first and last? + + No, this I have known in other ways, + In other places, other days. + Not only here, on this one peak, + Do fixity and beauty speak + Of the delusiveness of change, + Of the transparency of form, + The bootless stress of minds that range, + The awful calm behind the storm. + In many places, many days, + The invaded soul receives the rays + Of countries she was nurtured in, + Speaks in her silent language strange + To that beyond which is her kin. + Even in peopled streets at times + A metaphysic arm is thrust + Through the partitioning fabric thin, + And tears away the darkening pall + Cast by the bright phenomenal, + And clears the obscured spirit's mirror + From shadows of deceptive error, + And shows the bells and all their ringing, + And all the crowds and all their singing, + Carillons that are nothing's chimes + And dust that is not even dust.... + But rarely hold I converse thus + Where shapes are bright and clamorous, + More often comes the word divine + In places motionless and far; + Beneath the white peculiar shine + Of sunless summer afternoons; + At eventide on pale lagoons + Where hangs reflected one pale star; + Or deep in the green solitudes + Of still erect entranced woods. + + O, in the woods alone lying, + Scarce a bough in the wind sighing, + Gaze I long with fervid power + At leaf and branch and grass and flower, + Breathe I breaths of trembling sight + Shed from great urns of green delight, + Take I draughts and drink them up + Poured from many a stalk and cup. + Now do I burn for nothing more + Than thus to gaze, thus to adore + This exquisiteness of nature ever + In silence.... + + But with instant light + Rends the film; with joy I quiver + To see with new celestial sight + Flower and leaf and grass and tree, + Doomed barks on an eternal sea, + Flit phantom-like as transient smoke. + Beauty herself her spell has broke, + Beauty, the herald and the lure, + Her message told, may not endure; + Her portal opened, she has died, + Supreme immortal suicide. + Yes, sleepless nature soundless flings + Invisible grapples round the soul, + Drawing her through the web of things + To the primal end of her journeyings, + Her ultimate and constant pole. + + For Beauty with her hands that beckon + Is but the Prophet of a Higher, + A flaming and ephemeral beacon, + A Phoenix perishing by fire. + Herself from us herself estranges, + Herself her mighty tale doth kill, + That all things change yet nothing changes, + That all things move yet all are still. + + I cannot sink, I cannot climb, + Now that I see my ancient dwelling, + The central orb untouched of time, + And taste a peace all bliss excelling. + Now I have broken Beauty's wall, + Now that my kindred world I hold, + I care not though the cities fall + And the green earth go cold. + + + + + THE THREE HILLS + + + There were three hills that stood alone + With woods about their feet. + They dreamed quiet when the sun shone + And whispered when the rain beat. + + They wore all three their coronals + Till men with houses came + And scored their heads with pits and walls + And thought the hills were tame. + + Red and white when day shines bright + They hide the green for miles, + Where are the old hills gone? At night + The moon looks down and smiles. + + She sees the captors small and weak, + She knows the prisoners strong, + She hears the patient hills that speak: + "Brothers, it is not long; + + "Brothers, we stood when they were not + Ten thousand summers past. + Brothers, when they are clean forgot + We shall outlive the last; + + "One shall die and one shall flee + With terror in his train, + And earth shall eat the stones, and we + Shall be alone again." + + + + + A CHANT + + + Gently the petals fall as the tree gently sways + That has known many springs and many petals fall + Year after year to strew the green deserted ways + And the statue and the pond and the low, broken wall. + + Faded is the memory of old things done, + Peace floats on the ruins of ancient festival; + They lie and forget in the warmth of the sun, + And a sky silver-blue arches over all. + + O softly, O tenderly, the heart now stirs + With desires faint and formless; and, seeking not, I find + Quiet thoughts that flash like azure king-fishers + Across the luminous tranquil mirror of the mind. + + + + + ARTEMIS ALTERA + + + O full of candour and compassion, + Whom love and worship both would praise, + Love cannot frame nor worship fashion + The image of your fearless ways! + + How show your noble brow's dark pallor, + Your chivalrous casque of ebon hair, + Your eyes' bright strength, your lips' soft valour, + Your supple shoulders and hands that dare? + + Our souls when naively you examine, + Your sword of innocence, flaming, huge, + Sweeps over us, and there is famine + Within the ports of subterfuge. + + You hate contempt and love not laughter; + With your sharp spear of virgin will + You harry the wicked strong; but after, + O huntress who could never kill, + + Should they be trodden down or pierced, + Swift, swift, you fly with burning cheek + To place your beauty's shield reversed + Above the vile defenceless weak! + + + + + STARLIGHT + + + Last night I lay in an open field + And looked at the stars with lips sealed; + No noise moved the windless air, + And I looked at the stars with steady stare. + + There were some that glittered and some that shone + With a soft and equal glow, and one + That queened it over the sprinkled round, + Swaying the host with silent sound. + + "Calm things," I thought, "in your cavern blue, + I will learn and hold and master you; + I will yoke and scorn you as I can, + For the pride of my heart is the pride of a man." + + Grass to my cheek in the dewy field + I lay quite still with lips sealed, + And the pride of a man and his rigid gaze + Stalked like swords on heaven's ways. + + But through a sudden gate there stole + The Universe and spread in my soul; + Quick went my breath and quick my heart, + And I looked at the stars with lips apart. + + + + + FLORIAN'S SONG + + + My soul, it shall not take us, + O we will escape + This world that strives to break us + And cast us to its shape; + Its chisel shall not enter, + Its fire shall not touch, + Hard from rim to centre, + We will not crack or smutch. + + 'Gainst words sweet and flowered + We have an amulet, + We will not play the coward + For any black threat; + If we but give endurance + To what is now within-- + The single assurance + That it is good to win. + + Slaves think it better + To be weak than strong, + Whose hate is a fetter + And their love a thong. + But we will view those others + With eyes like stone, + And if we have no brothers + We will walk alone. + + + + + DIALOGUE + + + THE ONE + + The dead man's gone, the live man's + sad, the dying leaf shakes on the tree, + The wind constrains the window panes and + moans like moaning of the sea, + And sour's the taste now culled in haste of + lovely things I won too late, + And loud and loud above the crowd the + Voice of One more strong than we. + + + THE OTHER + + This Voice you hear, this call you fear, is + it unprophesied or new? + Were you so insolent to think its rope would + never circle you? + Did you then beastlike live and walk with + ears and eyes that would not turn? + Who bade you hope your service 'scape in + that eternal retinue? + + + THE ONE + + No; for I swear now bare's the tree and loud + the moaning of the wind, + I walked no rut with eyelids shut, my ears + and eyes were never blind, + Only my eager thoughts I bent on many + things that I desired + To make my greedy heart content ere flesh + and blood I left behind. + + + THE OTHER + + Ignorance, then, was all your fault and + filmed eyes that could not know, + That half discerned and never learned the + temporal way that men must go; + You set the image of the world high for + your heart's idolatry, + Though with your lips you called the world + a toy, a ghost, a passing show. + + + THE ONE + + No, no; this is not true; my lips spoke + only what my heart believed. + Called I the world a toy; I spoke not echo-like + or self-deceived. + But that I thought the toy was mine to play + with, and the passing show + Would sate at least my passing lusts, and did + not, therefore am I grieved. + + What did I do that I must bear this lifelong + tyranny of my fate, + That I must writhe in bonds unsought of + accidental love and hate? + Had chance but joined different dice, but + once or twice, but once or twice, + All lovely things that I desired I should have + held before too late. + + Surely I knew that flesh was grass nor valued + overmuch the prize, + But all the powers of chance conspired to + cheat a man both just and wise. + Happy I'd been had I but had my due + reward, and not a sword + Flaming in diabolic hand between me and + my Paradise. + + THE OTHER + + No hooded band of fates did stand your + heart's ambitions to gainsay, + No flaming brand in evil hand was ever + thrust across your way, + Only the things all men must meet, the + common attributes of men, + That men may flinch to see or, seeing, deny, + but avoid them no man may. + + Fall the dice, not once or twice but always, to + make the self-same sum; + Chance what may, a life's a life and to a + single goal must come; + Though a man search far and wide, never + is hunger satisfied; + Nature brings her natural fetters, man is + meshed and the wise are dumb. + + O vain all art to assuage a heart with accents + of a mortal tongue, + All earthly words are incomplete and only + sweet are the songs unsung, + Never yet was cause for regret, yet regret + must afflict us all, + Better it were to grasp the world 'thwart + which this world is a curtain flung. + + + + + CREPUSCULAR + + + No creature stirs in the wide fields. + The rifted western heaven yields + The dying sun's illumination. + This is the hour of tribulation + When, with clear sight of eve engendered, + Day's homage to delusion rendered, + Mute at her window sits the soul. + + Clouds and skies and lakes and seas, + Valleys and hills and grass and trees, + Sun, moon, and stars, all stand to her + Limbs of one lordless challenger, + Who, without deigning taunt or frown, + Throws a perennial gauntlet down: + "Come conquer me and take thy toll." + + No cowardice or fear she knows, + But, as once more she girds, there grows + An unresigned hopelessness + From memory of former stress. + Head bent, she muses whilst he waits: + How with such weapons dint his plates? + How quell this vast and sleepless giant + Calmly, immortally defiant, + + How fell him, bind him, and control + With a silver cord and a golden bowl? + + + + + AT NIGHT + + + Dark firtops foot the moony sky, + Blue moonlight bars the drive; + Here at the open window I + Sit smoking and alive. + + Wind in the branches swells and breaks + Like ocean on a beach; + Deep in the sky and my heart there wakes + A thought I cannot reach. + + + + + FOR MUSIC + + + Death in the cold grey morning + Came to the man where he lay; + And the wind shivered, and the tree shuddered + And the dawn was grey. + + And the face of the man was grey in the dawn, + And the watchers by the bed + Knew, as they heard the shaking of the leaves, + That the man was dead. + + + + + THE ROOF + + + I + + When the clouds hide the sun away + The tall slate roof is dull and grey, + And when the rain adown it streams + 'Tis polished lead with pale-blue gleams. + + When the clouds vanish and the rain + Stops, and the sun comes out again, + It shimmers golden in the sun + Almost too bright to look upon. + + But soon beneath the steady rays + The roof is dried and reft of blaze, + 'Tis dusty yellow traversed through + By long thin lines of deepest blue. + + Then at the last, as night draws near, + The lines grow faint and disappear, + The roof becomes a purple mist + A great square darkening amethyst + + Which sinks into the gathering shade + Till separate form and colour fade, + And it is but a patch which mars + The beauty of a field of stars. + + + II + + It stands so lonely in the sky + The sparrows never come anigh, + The glossy starlings seldom stop + To preen and chatter on the top. + + For a whole week sometimes up there + No wing-wave stirs the quiet air, + The roof lies silent and serene + As though no life had ever been; + + Till some bright afternoon, athwart + The edge two sudden shadows dart, + And two white pigeons with pink feet + Flutter above and pitch on it. + + Jerking their necks out as they walk + They talk awhile their pigeon-talk, + A low continuous murmur blent + Of mock reproaches and content. + + Then cease, and sit there warm and white + An hour, till in the fading light + They wake, and know the close of day, + Flutter above, and fly away, + + Leaving the roof whereon they sat + As 'twas before, a peaceful flat + Expanse, as silent and serene + As though no life had ever been. + + + + + TREETOPS + + + There beyond my window ledge, + Heaped against the sky a hedge + Of huge and wavering treetops stands + With multitudes of fluttering hands. + + Wave they, beat they to and fro, + Never stillness may they know, + Plunged by the wind and hurled and torn + Anguished, purposeless, forlorn. + + "O ferocious, O despairing, + In huddled isolation faring + Through a scattered universe, + Lost coins from the Almighty's purse!" + + "No, below you do not see + The firm foundations of the tree; + Anchored to a rock beneath + We laugh in the hammering tempest's teeth." + + "Boughs like men but burgeons are + On an adamantine star; + Men are myriad blossoms on + A staunch and cosmic skeleton." + + + + + IN THE PARK + + + This dense hard ground I tread + These iron bars that ripple past, + Will they unshaken stand when I am dead + And my deep thoughts outlast? + + Is it my spirit slips, + Falls, like this leaf I kick aside; + This firmness that I feel about my lips, + Is it but empty pride? + + Mute knowledge conquers me; + I contemplate them as they are, + Faint earth and shadowy bars that shake and flee, + Less hard, more transient far + + Than those unbodied hues + The sunset flings on the calm river; + And, as I look, a swiftness thrills my shoes + And my hands with empire quiver. + + Now light the ground I tread, + I walk not now but rather float; + Clear but unreal is the scene outspread, + Pitiful, thin, remote. + + Poor vapour is the grass, + So frail the trees and railings seem, + That, did I sweep my hand around, 'twould pass + Through them, as in a dream. + + Godlike I fear no changes; + Shatter the world with thunders loud, + Still would I ray-like flit about the ranges + Of dark and ruddy cloud. + + + + + SONG + + + There is a wood where the fairies dance + All night long in a ring of mushrooms daintily, + By each tree bole sits a squirrel or a mole, + And the moon through the branches darts. + + Light on the grass their slim limbs glance, + Their shadows in the moonlight swing in quiet unison, + And the moon discovers that they all have lovers, + But they never break their hearts. + + They never grieve at all for sands that run, + They never know regret for a deed that's done, + And they never think of going to a shed with a gun + At the rising of the sun. + + + + + TOWN + + + Mostly in a dull rotation + We bear our loads and eat and drink and sleep, + Feeling no tears, knowing no meditation-- + Too tired to think, too clogged with earth to weep. + + Dimly convinced, poor groping wretches, + Like eyeless insects in a murky pond + That out and out this city stretches, + Away, away, and there is no beyond. + + No larger earth, no loftier heaven, + No cleaner, gentler airs to breathe. And yet, + Even to us sometimes is given + Visions of things we otherwhiles forget. + + Some day is done, its labour ended, + And as we brood at windows high, + A steady wind from far descended, + Blows off the filth that hid the deeper sky; + + There are the empty waiting spaces, + We watch, we watch, unwinking, pale and dumb, + Till gliding up with noiseless paces + Night sweeps o'er all the wide arch: Night has come. + + Not that sick false night of the city, + Lurid and low and yellow and obscene, + But mother Night, pure, full of pity, + The star-strewn Night, blue, potent and serene. + + O, as we gaze the clamour ceases, + The turbid world around grows dim and small, + The soft-shed influence releases + Our shrouded spirits from their dusty pall. + + No more we hear the turbulent traffic, + Not scorned but unremembered is the day; + The Night, all luminous and seraphic, + Has brushed its heavy memories away. + + The great blue Night so clear and kindly, + The little stars so wide-eyed and so still, + Open a door for souls that blindly + Had wandered, tunnelling the endless hill; + + They draw the long-untraversed portal, + Our souls slip out and tremble and expand, + The immortal feels for the immortal, + The eternal holds the eternal by the hand. + + Impalpably we are led and lifted, + Softly we shake into the gulf of blue, + The last environing veil is rifted + And lost horizons float into our view. + + Lost lands, lone seas, lands that afar gleam + With a miraculous beauty, faint yet clear, + Forgotten lands of night and star-gleam, + Seas that are somewhere but that are not here. + + Borne without effort or endeavour, + Swifter and more ethereal than the wind, + In level track we stream, whilst ever + The fair pale panorama rolls behind. + + Now fleets below a tranced moorland, + A sweep of glimmering immobility; + Now craggy cliff and dented foreland + Pass back and there beyond unfolds the sea. + + Now wastes of water heaving, drawing, + Great darkling tracts of patterned restlessness, + With whitened waves round rough rocks mawing + And licking islands in their fierce caress. + + Now coasts with capes and ribboned beaches + Set silent 'neath the canopy sapphirine, + And estuaries and river reaches + Phantasmal silver in the night's soft shine. + + * * * * * + + Ah, these fair woods the spirit crosses, + These quiet lakes, these stretched dreaming fields, + These undulate downs with piny bosses + Pointing the ridges of their sloping shields. + + These valleys and these heights that screen them, + These tawnier sands where grass and tree are not, + Ah, we have known them, we have seen them + Long, long ago or ever we forgot; + + We know them all, these placid countries, + And what the pathway is and what the goal; + These are the gates and these the sentries + That guard the ancient fortress of the soul. + + And onward speed we flying, flying, + Over the sundering worlds of hill and plain + To where they rear their heads undying + The unnamed mountains of old days again. + + The snows upon their calm still summits, + The chasms, the lines of trees that foot the snow, + Curving like inky frozen comets, + Into the forest-ocean spread below. + + The glisten where the peaks are hoarest, + The soundless darkness of the sunken vales, + The folding leagues of shadowy forest, + Wave beyond wave till all distinctness fails. + + So invulnerable it is, so deathless, + So floods the air the loveliness of it, + That we stay dazzled, rapt and breathless, + Our beings ebbing to the infinite. + + There as we pause, there as we hover, + Moveless in ecstasy, a sudden light + Breaks in our eyes, and we discover + We sit at windows gazing to the night. + + Wistful and tired, with eyes a-tingle + Where still the sting of Beauty faintly smarts, + But with our mute regrets there mingle + Thanks for the resurrection of our hearts. + + O night so great that will not mock us! + O stars so wise that understand the weak! + O vast consoling hands that rock us! + O strong and perfect tongues that speak! + + O night enrobed in azure splendour! + O whispering stars whose radiance falls like dew! + O mighty presences and tender, + You have given us back the dreams our childhood knew! + + Lulled by your visions without number, + We seek our beds content and void of pain, + And dreaming drowse and dreaming slumber + And dreaming wake to see the day again. + + + + + A MEMORIAL + + (F.T.) + + + The cord broke, and the tent + Slipped, and the silken roof + Lay prone beneath the viewless hoof + Of the deliberate firmament. + Yet cared we not; how should we care? + Knowing that labourless now he breathes + A golden paradisal air + Where with more certain craft he wreathes + Bright braids of words more wise and fair + Than ever his earthly fabrics were, + That his unwavering eyes made fresh, + Purged and regarbed in fadeless flesh, + What he then darkly guessed behold, + And watch with an abiding joy + The eternal mysteries unfold + Which do his now transfigured songs evermore employ. + + Brother, yet great thy power; + Thou stood'st as on a tower + Small 'neath the stars yet high above the fields; + In thy alembic song + Imagination strong + Distilled what essences the quest to mortals yields. + This thy reward well-won, + For every morning's sun + Found thy heart's firm allegiance still unshaken; + No temporal ache or smart + Drave Beauty from thy heart, + And by thy mighty mistress never wast forsaken. + + Yes; for though stringent was the test, + When that thy trial was bitterest, + Steadfast thou did'st remain; unshod + The harrows of Pain thy feet once trod, + Humiliate as thy sad song tells + Before the vault's white sentinels. + Friendless and faint thou sojourned'st there, + A bowed, brave, timid wanderer, + A lonely nomad of the spirit, + Who did a triple curse inherit, + Hunger, regret and memory. + Yet never did they vanquish thee; + When nighest broken, most alone, + Thy unassuaged thoughts could clamber + To beauty on her ageless throne; + Thou wert as one in torture chamber + Who sees the blue through an open casement + And hammers his soul to endure the time + Of his corporeal abasement; + Nor writhed'st at thine or others' fault, + But with grim tenderness did salt + Thy cicatrices with a rhyme. + Not the most sable flame of gloom + Could penetrate thy inmost room; + But through the walls thy spirit sucked + Into that cloistral hermitage + Stray lovely things, moonbeams and snows + The far sky shed into thy cage, + And, from the very gutter plucked, + A lost and mired campestral rose. + + Ended that purgatorial period, + Filled was thy wallet and thy feet were shod, + The leaden weights were moved, the rack withdrawn, + Thou didst traverse the dewy fields of dawn, + Watch sunsets blazoning over upland turf, + Pull poppies from the frontiers of the surf, + Dwelled'st with love and human eyes + Vigilant, calm and wise. + But still as when thy bark did ride + Derelict on the city's tide, + As then for penury now for pride + Thy bodily senses were denied; + Though they cried out and would not sleep, + Ascetic thou didst armour them + Lest acid pleasure should eat thine art's pure gem. + Hourly the tempter's ambuscades + But thou didst guard the gates and keep + Thy senses' hungry colonnades + Accessible but to Beauty's ministers, + Unlit by any ruby flame but hers. + Immuring so thy spirit eager + Within a body frail and meagre, + Far from the meads of earthly milk and honey, + Yet franchised of more wondrous territories, + Like those poor Bedouin of Arabia the Stony + Who roam spare-fed and hollow-eyed but free + By day to wander and by night to camp + In vast serenity, + Compassed by God's great silent glories + The sun's gold splendour and the moon's white lamp, + Folded and safe from harm + Beneath the mighty sky's protecting arm. + + Ha! but the Titan's ardour + Wherewith thou scour'dst the vast, + To spoil the starry larder + Of fruits of heavenly taste! + Urania's fiercest servant, + With thirst as furnace fervent + And serene burning brow, + Worthy of thy great lineage, thou + Drankest without a shudder + In proud humility + Milk from that vast primaeval udder + That swells for such as thee, + Milk from the fountains of the Universe + That cowards deem infected with a curse, + That flushes him who drinks + Nor shrinks + The exalted anguish of diurnal draughts + To a clear vision, more intolerable + In its blissful pain, than love's most ardent shafts, + Of the seats where she doth dwell, + She, whom thou didst confess + Enticed + Thee hot to her throne to press + For the greater glory of Christ + To uplift the curtains of her closed eyes. + + Not all was for thy learning + Nor any mortal's else; + Only for thy discerning + Sporadic syllables + Of those supernal glances + Coffer of which her marble countenance is, + Yet vain was not the adventure, + Reluctant though the prize, + Thou gainedst a debenture + On the fringe of Beauty's eyes; + Such fragmentary trophy + As some cross-tunic'd knight + From Saladin or Sophy + May have won in sword's despite, + Not the dear polar shrines + Held captive by the Paynim + But still as fruit of wars + Some stone from Sion's lines, + Some relic that might sain him + Of life's uncounted scars. + + Self-dedicated anchorite, + Never disdainful of the dust, + But conscious of the overcoming night + That must engulph the blooms and berries of lust, + And unforgetful of the enveloping day beyond; + Though a sweet show was spread for thy delight + Resolved not to be so fond + As, in ephemeral gauds caparisoned, + To station feet upon a world of vapour + Soft as a dream and fleeting as a taper; + Thou thoughtest nevertheless that thou shouldst occupy + Thyself, as it seemed to thee, most worthily + Until the rapid hour when thou shouldst die; + So, in a world of seemings, + Of shadows and of dreamings, + Busied thyself to fashion and record + Unto the greater glory of thy Lord, + For thy proud lady Beauty His + Most excellent and humble handmaid is. + Says one thy service was too ceremonial, + Thy vestments irised overmuch, thy ritual + Too elaborate and thy rubric too obscure, + Therefore thy gift of chant and orison + Beneath the perfect service men have done. + O but thy notes were pure, + And in a day like this we now endure + No fault it was in thee to set thy camp + Remote, aloof, aloof, + In a far fastness proof + 'Gainst the mephitic odours of the swamp. + Which being so, no gain + 'Twere to explain + An exquisiteness too meticulous; + Let us but say it pleased thee thus, + Dowered with imagination heavy-fruited, + To raise a column garlanded and fluted + For Him thy heavenly abacus. + This was thine offering thou didst make + In founded hope that He + The craftsman's best would take + Well knowing its unobscure sincerity. + + The cord broke and the tent + Slipped and the silken roof + Lay prone beneath the viewless hoof + Of the deliberate firmament. + We still in this terrene abode + Forlorn must tread the difficult road, + And all meek thanks and all belief + Hardly suffice to rampart grief. + For gone is Beauty's votary apostolic + And are her temples now delivered over + To blindworms and libidinous goats that frolic + In places hallowed by that celestial lover. + Save only two or three + With undivided minds like thee, + None now remains that girds + The peregrinal loin, + None reverent of Beauty's holy tongue, + But counterfeiters of her imaged coin, + Iconoclasts, breakers of carven words, + Seekers of worthless treasure in the dung, + Mock mages and cacophonous charlatans, + And pismire artisans + Labouring to make + Such mirrored replicas of Nature's face + As might the surface of a stagnant lake. + + Yet we should anger not, + Nor let that be forgot, + The testament of stateliest worth + He left us when he fled the earth. + The mausoleum made of rhyme, + Fair in its unfrequented field, + Which shall invulnerably shield + His memory to the end of Time; + The house with curtain-flaming halls + And roof of gold and jewelled walls + For which the fisher sank his net + Into the deepest pools of speech, + Scooping rich conchs and ribbons wet + That a less venturous could not reach, + The hunter tracked the metaphor + On many a foamy silver coast + A hundred leagues beyond the most + Fabulous Tellurian shore. + + Magnificent he was and mild, + Glad to be still and glad to speak, + Daring yet delicate as a child, + Faithful, compassionate and holy, + And, being human, strong and weak, + And full of hope and melancholy. + No more than we, able to shed + Man's nature he inherited, + Neither sin's garrison to kill, + Yet at the last with constancy so great + As the world's vanities to abnegate, + Sternly to will the sacrifice of will + Upon the altars of the Uncreate, + So that he lived before he died + As one who hourly to himself denied + All joys save those that cannot pall, + Who having nothing yet had all. + + + + + FRIENDSHIP'S GARLAND + + + I + + When I was a boy there was a friend of mine, + We thought ourselves warriors and grown folk swine, + Stupid old animals who never understood + And never had an impulse and said "you must be good." + + We slank like stoats and fled like foxes, + We put cigarettes in the pillar-boxes, + Lighted cigarettes and letters all aflame-- + O the surprise when the postman came! + + We stole eggs and apples and made fine hay + In people's houses when people were away, + We broke street lamps and away we ran, + Then I was a boy but now I am a man. + + Now I am a man and don't have any fun, + I hardly ever shout and I never never run, + And I don't care if he's dead that friend of mine, + For then I was a boy and now I am a swine. + + + II + + We met again the other night + With people; you were quite polite, + Shook my hand and spoke awhile + Of common things with cautious smile; + Paid the usual debt men owe + To fellows whom they used to know. + But, when our eyes met full, yours dropped, + And sudden, resolute, you stopped, + Moving with hurried syllables + To make remarks to some one else. + I caught them not, to me they said: + "Let the dead past bury its dead, + Things were very different then, + Boys are fools and men are men." + Several times the other night + You did your best to be polite; + When in the conversation's round + You heard my tongue's familiar sound + You bent in eager pose my way + To hear what I had got to say; + Trying, you thought with some success, + To hide the chasm's nakedness. + But on your eyes hard films there lay; + No mock-interest, no pretence + Could veil your blank indifference; + And if thoughts came recalling things + Far-off, far-off, from those old springs + When underneath the moon and sun + Our separate pulses beat as one, + Vagrant tender thoughts that asked + Admittance found the portal masked; + You spurned them; when I'd said my say, + With laugh and nod you turned away + To toss your friends some easy jest + That smote my brow and stabbed my breast. + Foolish though it be and vain + I am not master of my pain, + And when I said good-night to you + I hoped we should not meet again, + And wondered how the soul I knew + Could change so much; have I changed too? + + + III + + There was a man whom I knew well + Whose choice it was to live in hell; + Reason there was why that was so + But what it was I do not know. + + He had a room high in a tower, + And sat there drinking hour by hour, + Drinking, drinking all alone + With candles and a wall of stone. + + Now and then he sobered down, + And stayed a night with me in town. + If he found me with a crowd, + He shrank and did not speak aloud. + + He sat in a corner silently, + And others of the company + Would note his curious face and eye, + His twitching face and timid eye. + + When they saw the eye he had + They thought perhaps that he was mad. + I knew he was clear and sane + But had a horror in his brain. + + He had much money and one friend + And drank quite grimly to the end. + Why he chose to die in hell + I did not ask, he did not tell. + + + + + LINES + + + When London was a little town + Lean by the river's marge, + The poet paced it with a frown, + He thought it very large. + + He loved bright ship and pointing steeple + And bridge with houses loaded + And priests and many-coloured people ... + But ah, they were not woaded! + + Not all the walls could shed the spell + Of meres and marshes green, + Nor any chaffering merchant tell + The beauty that had been: + + The crying birds at fall of night, + The fisher in his coracle, + And grim on Ludgate's windy height, + An oak-tree and an oracle. + + Sick for the past his hair he rent + And dropt a tear in season; + If he had cause for his lament + We have much better reason. + + For now the fields and paths he knew + Are coffined all with bricks, + The lucid silver stream he knew + Runs slimy as the Styx; + + North and south and east and west, + Far as the eye can travel, + Earth with a sombre web is drest + That nothing can unravel. + + And we must wear as black a frown, + Wail with as keen a woe + That London was a little town + Five hundred years ago. + + * * * * * + + Yet even this place of steamy stir, + This pit of belch and swallow, + With chrism of gold and gossamer + The elements can hallow. + + I have a room in Chancery Lane, + High in a world of wires, + Whence fall the roofs a ragged plain + Wooded with many spires. + + There in the dawns of summer days + I stand in adoration, + While London's robed in rainbow haze + And gold illumination. + + The wizard breezes waft the rays + Shot by the waking sun, + A myriad chimneys softly blaze, + A myriad shadows run. + + Round the wide rim in radiant mist + The gentle suburbs quiver, + And nearer lies the shining twist + Of Thames, a holy river + + Left and right my vision drifts, + By yonder towers I linger, + Where Westminster's cathedral lifts + Its belled Byzantine finger, + + And here against my perched home + Where hold wise converse daily + The loftier and the lesser dome, + St. Paul's and the Old Bailey. + + + + + ECHOES + + + There is a far unfading city + Where bright immortal people are; + Remote from hollow shame and pity, + Their portals frame no guiding star + But blightless pleasure's moteless rays + That follow their footsteps as they dance + Long lutanied measures through a maze + Of flower-like song and dalliance. + + There always glows the vernal sun, + There happy birds for ever sing, + There faint perfumed breezes run + Through branches of eternal spring; + There faces browned and fruit and milk + And blue-winged words and rose-bloomed kisses + In galleys gowned with gold and silk + Shake on a lake of dainty blisses. + + Coyness is not, nor bear they thought + Save of a shining gracious flow, + All natural joys are temperate sought, + For calm desire there they know, + A fire promiscuous, languorous, kind; + They scorn all fiercer lusts and quarrels, + Nor blow about on anger's wind, + Nor burn with love, nor rust with morals. + + Folk in the far unfading city, + Burning with lusts my senses are, + I am torn with love and shame and pity, + Be to my heart a guiding star + Wise youths and maidens in the sun, + With eyes that charm and lips that sing, + And gentle arms that rippling run, + Shed on my heart your endless spring! + + + + + THE FUGITIVE + + + Flying his hair and his eyes averse, + Fleet are his feet and his heart apart. + How could we clear his charms rehearse? + Fleet are his feet and his heart apart. + + High on a down we found him last, + Shy as a hare, he fled as fast; + How could we clasp him or ever he passed? + Fleet are his feet and his heart apart. + + How could we cling to his limbs that shone, + Ravish his cheeks' red gonfalon, + Or the wild-skin cloak that he had on? + Fleet are his feet and his heart apart. + + For the wind of his feet still straightly shaping, + He loosed at our breasts from his eyes escaping + One crooked swift glance like a javelin leaping. + Fleet are his feet and his heart apart. + + And his feet passed over the sunset land + From the place forlorn where a forlorn band + Watching him flying we still did stand. + Fleet are his feet and his heart apart. + + Vanishing now who would not stay + To the blue hills on the verge of day. + O soft! soft! Music play, + Fading away, + (Fleet are his feet + And his heart apart) + Fading away. + + + + + IN AN ORCHARD + + + Airy and quick and wise + In the shed light of the sun, + You clasp with friendly eyes + The thoughts from mine that run. + + But something breaks the link; + I solitary stand + By a giant gully's brink + In some vast gloomy land. + + Sole central watcher, I + With steadfast sadness now + In that waste place descry + 'Neath the awful heavens how + + Your life doth dizzy drop + A little foam of flame + From a peak without a top + To a pit without a name. + + + + + IN A CHAIR + + + He room is full of the peace of night, + The small flames murmur and flicker and sway, + Within me is neither shadow, nor light, + Nor night, nor twilight, nor dawn, nor day. + + For the brain strives not to the goal of thought, + And the limbs lie wearied, and all desire + Sleeps for a while, and I am naught + But a pair of eyes that gaze at a fire. + + + + + A DAY + + + I. MORNING + + The village fades away + Where I last night came + Where they housed me and fed me + And never asked my name. + + The sun shines bright, my step is light, + I, who have no abode, + Jeer at the stuck, monotonous + Black posts along the road. + + + II. MIDDAY + + The wood is still, + As here I sit + My heart drinks in + The peace of it. + + A something stirs + I know not where + Some quiet spirit + In the air. + + O tall straight stems! + O cool deep green! + O hand unfelt! + O face unseen! + + + III. EVENING + + The evening closes in, + As down this last long lane + I plod; there patter round + First heavy drops of rain. + + Feet ache, legs ache, but now + Step quickens as I think + Of mounds of bread and cheese + And something hot to drink. + + + IV. NIGHT + + Ah! sleep is sweet, but yet + I will not sleep awhile + Nor for a space forget + The toil of that last mile; + + But lie awake and feel + The cool sheets' tremulous kisses + O'er all my body steal ... + Is sleep as sweet as this is? + + + + + THE MIND OF MAN + + + I + + Beneath my skull-bone and my hair, + Covered like a poisonous well, + There is a land: if you looked there + What you saw you'd quail to tell. + You that sit there smiling, you + Know that what I say is true. + + My head is very small to touch, + I feel it all from front to back, + An eared round that weighs not much, + Eyes, nose-holes, and a pulpy crack: + Oh, how small, how small it is! + How could countries be in this? + + Yet, when I watch with eyelids shut, + It glimmers forth, now dark, now clear, + The city of Cis-Occiput, + The marshes and the writhing mere, + The land that every man I see + Knows in himself but not in me. + + + II + + Upon the borders of the weald + (I walk there first when I step in) + Set in green wood and smiling field, + The city stands, unstained of sin; + White thoughts and wishes pure + Walk the streets with steps demure. + + In its clean groves and spacious halls + The quiet-eyed inhabitants + Hold innocent sunny festivals + And mingle in decorous dance; + Things that destroy, distort, deface, + Come never to that lovely place. + + Never could evil enter thither, + It could not live in that sweet air, + The shadow of an ill deed must wither + And fall away to nothing there. + You would say as there you stand + That all was beauty in the land. + + * * * * * + + But go you out beyond the gateway, + Cleave you the woods and pass the plain, + Cross you the frontier down, and straightway + The trees will end, the grass will wane, + And you will come to a wilderness + Of sticks and parched barrenness. + + The middle of the land is this, + A tawny desert midmost set, + Barren of living things it is, + Saving at night some vampires flit + That nest them in the farther marish + Where all save vilest things must perish. + + Here in this reedy marsh of green + And oily pools, swarm insects fat + And birds of prey and beasts obscene, + Things that the traveller shudders at, + All cunning things that creep and fly + To suck men's blood until they die. + + Rarely from hence does aught escape + Into the world of outer light, + But now and then some sable shape + Outward will dash in sudden flight; + And men stand stonied or distraught + To know the loathly deed or thought. + + But, ah! beyond the marsh you reach + A purulent place more vile than all, + A festering lake too foul for speech, + Rotten and black, with coils acrawl, + Where writhe with lecherous squeakings shrill + Horrors that make the heart stand still. + + There, 'neath a heaven diseased, it lies, + The mere alive with slimy worms, + With perverse terrible infamies, + And murders and repulsive forms + That have no name, but slide here deep + Whilst I, their holder, silence keep. + + + + + A REASONABLE PROTESTATION + + [To F., who complained of his vagueness and lack of + dogmatic statement] + + + Not, I suppose, since I deny + Appearance is reality, + And doubt the substance of the earth + Does your remonstrance come to birth; + Not that at once I both affirm + 'Tis not the skin that makes the worm + And every tactile thing with mass + Must find its symbol in the grass + And with a cool conviction say + Even a critic's more than clay + And every dog outlives his day. + This kind of vagueness suits your view, + You would not carp at it; for you + Did never stand with those who take + Their pleasures in a world opaque. + For you a tree would never be + Lovely were it but a tree, + And earthly splendours never splendid + If by transience unattended. + Your eyes are on a farther shore + Than any of earth; you not adore + As godhead God's dead hieroglyph, + Nor would you be perturbed if + Some prophet with a voice of thunder + And avalanche arm should blast and founder + The logical pillars that maintain + This visible world which loads the brain, + Loads the brain and withers the heart + And holds man from his God apart. + + But still with you remains the craving + For some more solid substance, having + Surface to touch, colour to see, + And form compact in symmetry. + You are not satisfied with these + Vague throbbings, utterless ecstasies, + Void finds your spirit of delight + This great indefinite white light, + Not with such sickles can you reap; + If a dense earth you cannot keep + You want a dense heaven as substitute + With trees of plump celestial fruit, + Red apples, golden pomegranates, + And a river flowing by tall gates + Of topaz and of chrysolite + And walls of twenty cubits height. + + Frank, you cry out against the age! + Nor you nor I can disengage + Ourselves from that in which we live + Nor seize on things God does not give. + Thirsty as you, perhaps, I long + For courtyards of eternal song, + Even as yours my feet would stray + In a city where 'tis always day + And a green spontaneous leafy garden + With God in the middle for a warden; + But though I trust with strengthening faith + I'll taste when I have traversed death + The unimaginable sweetness + Of certitude of such concreteness, + How should I draw the hue and scope + Of substances I only hope + Or blaze upon a mortal screen + The evidence of things not seen? + This art of ours but grows and stirs + Experience when it registers, + And you know well as I know well + This autumn of time in which we dwell + Is not an age of revelations + Solid as once, but intimations + That touch us with warm misty fingers + Leaving a nameless sense that lingers + That sight is blind and Time's a snare + And earth less solid than the air + And deep below all seeming things + There sits a steady king of kings + A radiant ageless permanence, + A quenchless fount of virtue whence + We draw our life; a sense that makes + A staunch conviction nothing shakes + Of our own immortality. + And though, being man, with certain glee + I eat and drink, though I suffer pain, + And love and hate and love again + Well or in mode contemptible, + Thus shackled by the body's spell + I see through pupils of the beast + Though it be faint and blurred with mist + A Star that travels in the East. + + I see what I can, not what I will + In things that move, things that are still, + Thin motion, even cloudier rest, + I see the symbols God hath drest + The moveless trees, the trees that wave + The clouds that heavenly highways have, + Horses that run, rocks that are fixt, + Streams that have rest and motion mixt, + The main with its abiding flux, + The wind that up my chimney sucks + A mounting waterfall of flame, + Sticks, straws, dust, beetles and that same + Old blazing sun the Psalmist saw + A testifier to the law. + Divinely to the heart they speak + Saying how they are but weak + Wan will o' the wisps o'er the crystal sea; + But stays that sea still dark to me. + + Did I now glibly insolent + Chart the ulterior firmament, + Would you not know my words were lies, + Where not my testimonial eyes + Mortal or spiritual lodge, + Mere uncorroborated fudge? + Praise me, though praise I do not want, + Rather, that I have cast much cant, + That what I see and feel I write + Read what I can in this dim light + Granted to me in nether night. + And though I am vague and shrink to guess + God's everlasting purposes, + And never save in perplext dream + Have caught the least authentic gleam + Of the great kingdom and the throne + In the world that lies behind our own, + I have not lacked my certainties, + I have not haggard moaned the skies, + Now waged unnecessary strife + Nor scorned nor overvalued life. + And though you say my attitude + Is questioning, concede my mood + Does never bring to tongue or pen + Accents of gloomy modern men + Who wail or hail the death of God + And weigh and measure man the clod, + Or say they draw reluctant breath + And musically mourn that Death + Is a queen omnipotent of woe + And Life her lean cicisbeo, + Abject and pale, whom vampire-like + She playeth with ere she shall strike, + And pose sad riddles to the Sphinx + With raven quills in purple inks,... + Then send the boy to fetch more drinks. + + + + + EPILOGUE + + + Than farthest stars more distant, + A mile more, + A mile more, + A voice cries on insistent: + "You may smile more if you will; + + "You may sing too and spring too; + But numb at last + And dumb at last, + Whatever port you cling to, + You must come at last to a hill. + + "And never a man you'll find there + To take your hand + And shake your hand; + But when you go behind there + You must make your hand a sword + + "To fence with a foeman swarthy, + And swink there + Nor shrink there, + Though cowardly and worthy + Must drink there one reward." + + + + + TWELVE + + TRANSLATIONS + + FROM + + CHARLES BAUDELAIRE + + + + + TOUT ENTIERE + + + This morning in my attic high + The Demon came to visit me, + And seeking faults in my reply, + He said: "I would inquire of thee, + + "Of all the beauties which compose + Her charming body's potent spell, + Of all the objects black and rose + Which make the thing you love so well, + + "Which is the sweetest?" O my soul! + Thou didst rejoin: "How tell of parts, + When all I know is that the whole + Works magic in my heart of hearts? + + "Where all is fair, how should I say + What single grace is my delight? + She shines on me like break of day + And she consoles me as the night. + + "There flows through all her perfect frame + A harmony too exquisite + That weak analysis should name + The numberless accords of it. + + "O mystic metamorphosis! + My separate senses all are blent; + Within her breath soft music is, + And in her voice a subtle scent!" + + + + + THE ALCHEMY OF GRIEF + + + One, Nature! burns and makes thee bright, + One gives thee weeds to mourn withal; + And what to one is burial + Is to the other life and light. + + The unknown Hermes who assists + And alway fills my heart with fear + Makes me the mighty Midas' peer + The saddest of the alchemists. + + Through him I make gold changeable + To dross, and paradise to hell; + Clouds for its corpse-cloths I descry. + + A stark dead body I love well, + And in the gleaming fields on high + I build immense sarcophagi. + + + + + SPLEEN + + + When the low heavy sky weighs like a lid + Upon the spirit aching for the light + And all the wide horizon's line is hid + By a black day sadder than any night; + + When the changed earth is but a dungeon dank + Where batlike Hope goes blindly fluttering + And, striking wall and roof and mouldered plank, + Bruises his tender head and timid wing; + + When like grim prison-bars stretch down the thin, + Straight, rigid pillars of the endless rain, + And the dumb throngs of infamous spiders spin + Their meshes in the caverns of the brain;-- + + Suddenly, bells leap forth into the air, + Hurling a hideous uproar to the sky + As 'twere a band of homeless spirits who fare + Through the strange heavens, wailing stubbornly. + + And hearses, without drum or instrument, + File slowly through my soul; crushed, sorrowful, + Weeps Hope, and Grief, fierce and omnipotent, + Plants his black banner on my drooping skull. + + + + + A VOYAGE TO CYTHERA + + + My heart was like a bird and took to flight, + Around the rigging circling joyously; + The ship rolled on beneath a cloudless sky + Like a great angel drunken with the light. + + "What is yon isle, sad and funereal?" + "Cythera famed in deathless song," said they, + "The gay old bachelors' Eldorado-Nay, + Look! 'tis a poor bare country after all!" + + Isle of sweet secrets and heart banquetings! + The queenly shade of antique Venus thrills + Scentlike above thy level seas and fills + Our souls with languor and all amorous things. + + Fair isle and of green myrtles and blown flowers + Held holy by all men for evermore, + Where the faint sighs of spirits that adore + Float like rose-incense through the quiet hours, + + And dovelike sounds each murmured orison:-- + Cythera lay there barren 'neath bright skies, + A rocky waste rent by discordant cries: + Natheless I saw a curious thing thereon. + + No shady temple was it, close enshrined + I' the trees; no flower-crowned priestess hither came + With her young body burnt by secret flame, + Baring her breast to the caressing wind; + + But when so close to the land's edge we drew + Our canvas scared the sea-fowl--gradually + We knew it for a three-branched gallows tree + Like a black cypress stark against the blue. + + A rotten carcase hung, whereon did sit + A swarm of foul black birds; with writhe and shriek + Each sought to pierce and plunge his knife-like beak + Deep in the bleeding trunk and limbs of it. + + The eyes were holes; the belly opened wide + Streaming its heavy entrails on the thighs; + The grim birds, gorged with dreadful delicacies, + Had dug and furrowed it on every side. + + Beneath the blackened feet there strove and pressed + A herd of jealous beasts with upward snout, + And in the midst of these there turned about + One, the chief hangman, larger than the rest.... + + Lone Cytherean! now all silently + Thou sufferest these insults to atone + For those old infamous sins that thou hast known, + The sins that locked the gate o' the grave to thee. + + Mine are thy sorrows, ludicrous corse; yea, all + Are mine! I stood thy swaying limbs beneath, + And, like a bitter vomit, to my teeth + There rose old shadows in a stream of gall. + + O thou unhappy devil, I felt afresh, + Gazing at thee, the beaks and jaws of those + Black savage panthers and those ruthless crows, + Who loved of old to macerate my flesh. + + The sea was calm, the sky without a cloud; + Henceforth for me all things that came to pass + Were blood and darkness,--round my heart, alas! + There clung that allegory, like a shroud. + + Naught save mine image on a gibbet thrust + Found I on Venus island desolate.... + Ah, God! the courage and strength to contemplate + My body and my heart without disgust. + + + + + THE CRACKED BELL + + + 'Tis bitter-sweet, when winter nights are long, + To watch, beside the flames which smoke and twist, + The distant memories which slowly throng, + Brought by the chime soft-singing through the mist. + + Happy the sturdy, vigorous-throated bell + Who, spite of age alert and confident, + Cries hourly, like some strong old sentinel + Flinging the ready challenge from his tent. + + For me, my soul is cracked; when sick with care, + She strives with songs to people the cold air + It happens often that her feeble cries + + Mock the harsh rattle of a man who lies + Wounded, forgotten, 'neath a mound of slain + And dies, pinned fast, writhing his limbs in pain. + + + + + THE OFFENDED MOON + + + O moon, O lamp of hill and secret dale! + Thou whom our fathers, ages out of mind, + Worshipped in thy blue heaven, whilst behind + Thy stars streamed after thee a glittering trail, + + Dost see the poet, weary-eyed and pale, + Or lovers on their happy beds reclined, + Showing white teeth in sleep, or vipers twined, + 'Neath the dry sward; or in a golden veil + + Stealest thou with faint footfall o'er the grass + As of old, to kiss from twilight unto dawn + The faded charms of thine Endymion?... + + "O child of this sick century, I see + Thy grey-haired mother leering in her glass + And plastering the breast that suckled thee!" + + + + + TO THEODORE DE BANVILLE, + + 1842 + + + So proud your port, your arm so powerful, + With such a grip you grip the goddess' hair, + That one might take you, from your casual air, + For a young ruffian flinging down his trull. + + Your clear eye flashing with precocity, + You have displayed yourself proud architect + Of fabrics so audaciously correct + That we may guess what your ripe prime will be. + + Poet, our blood ebbs out through every pore; + Is it, perchance, the robe the Centaur bore, + Which made a sullen streamlet of each vein, + + Was three times dipped within the venom fell + Of those old reptiles fierce and terrible + Whom, in his cradle, Hercules had slain? + + + + + MUSIC + + + Oft Music, as it were some moving mighty sea, + Bears me towards my pale + Star: in clear space, or 'neath a vaporous canopy + On-floating, I set sail. + + With heaving chest which strains forward, and lungs outblown, + I climb the ridged steeps + Of those high-piled clouds which 'thwart the night are thrown, + Veiling its starry deeps. + + I suffer all the throes, within my quivering form, + Of a great ship in pain, + Now a soft wind, and now the writhings of a storm + + Upon the vasty main + Rock me: at other times a death-like calm, the bare + Mirror of my despair. + + + + + THE CATS + + + The lover and the stern philosopher + Both love, in their ripe time, the confident + Soft cats, the house's chiefest ornament, + Who like themselves are cold and seldom stir. + + Of knowledge and of pleasure amorous, + Silence they seek and Darkness' fell domain; + Had not their proud souls scorned to brook his rein, + They would have made grim steeds for Erebus. + + Pensive they rest in noble attitudes + Like great stretched sphinxes in vast solitudes + Which seem to sleep wrapt in an endless dream; + + Their fruitful loins are full of sparks divine, + And gleams of gold within their pupils shine + As 'twere within the shadow of a stream. + + + + + THE SADNESS OF THE MOON + + + This evening the Moon dreams more languidly, + Like a beauty who on mounded cushions rests, + And with her light hand fondles lingeringly, + Before she sleeps, the slope of her sweet breasts. + + On her soft satined avalanches' height + Dying, she laps herself for hours and hours + In long, long swoons, and gazes at the white + Visions which rise athwart the blue like flowers. + + When sometimes in her perfect indolence + She lets a furtive tear steal gently thence, + Some pious poet, a lone, sleepless one, + + Takes in his hollowed hand this gem, shot through, + Like an opal stone, with gleams of every hue, + And in his heart's depths hides it from the sun. + + + + + MOESTA ET ERRABUNDA + + Agatha, tell me, does thy heart not ache, + Plunged in this squalid city's filthy sea, + For another ocean where the splendours break + Blue, clear, and deep as is virginity. + Agatha, tell me, does thy heart not ache? + + The sea, the sea unending, comforts us! + What demon gave the hoarse old sea who sings + To her mumbling hurricanes' organ thunderous + The god-like power to cradle sorrowful things? + The sea, the sea unending, comforts us. + + Carry me, wagon, bear me, barque, away! + Far! Far! For here the mud is made of tears! + Does Agatha's sad heart not sometimes say: + "O far from shudderings and crimes and fears, + Carry me, wagon; bear me barque, away?" + + How far thou art, O scented paradise, + O paradise where all is love and joy, + Where all is worthy love 'neath the azure skies, + And the heart drowns in bliss without alloy! + How far thou art, O scented paradise! + + But the green paradise of childish loves, + The games, the songs, the kisses and the flowers, + The laughing draughts of wine in hidden groves, + The violins throbbing through the twilight hours, + --But the green paradise of childish loves, + + The artless paradise of stealthy joys, + Is that already leagues beyond Cathay? + And can one, with a little plaintive noise, + Bring it again that is so far away-- + The artless paradise of stealthy joys? + + + + + THE OWLS + + + 'Neath their black yews in solemn state + The owls are sitting in a row + Like foreign gods; and even so + Blink their red eyes; they meditate. + + Quite motionless they hold them thus + Until at last the day is done, + And driving down the slanting sun, + The sad night is victorious. + + They teach the wise who gives them ear + That in this world he most should fear + All things which loud or restless be. + + Who, dazzled by a passing shade, + Follows it, never will be free + Till the dread penalty be paid. + +FINIS + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Three Hills, by +John Collings Squire and Charles Baudelaire + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREE HILLS *** + +***** This file should be named 36620.txt or 36620.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/6/2/36620/ + +Produced by Marc D'Hooghe & Andrea Ballat http://www.freeliterature.org + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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