三年以后
　　
　　
　　推开那扇狭小坏朽的门，
　　我一个人在花园里徜徉。
　　早晨的阳光甜美、明亮，
　　露水闪烁，把花朵滋润。
　　
　　一切如旧，仿佛时光停止：
　　葡萄藤缠绕的棚架和熟悉的
　　藤椅……喷泉仍喃喃低语，
　　老杨树的声音也依然悲戚。
　　
　　玫瑰颤动，恍若昔日；恍若
　　昔日，骄傲的百合随风摇曳；
　　每只往来的云雀都是我故知。
　　
　　甚至，残破的薇莉达*雕像
　　也仍在走道尽头，消瘦的
　　身影，在木犀草的微香中。
　　
　　灵石 译
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　熟悉的梦
　　
　　
　　我常常做这个梦，奇怪而悲切：
　　一个陌生的女人，我爱她，她
　　也爱我，每次她都隐约有些变化，
　　却又依稀没变。她爱我，懂我。
　　
　　她懂我。我的心只为她变得
　　透明，一切苦闷暂时遁迹；
　　也只有她，只有她的哭泣，
　　能抚慰我湿冷苍白的前额。
　　
　　她的头发是深褐、金黄还是火红？
　　不知道。她的名字？甜美，动听，
　　就像从生活中消失的亲人的名字。
　　
　　她的凝视，仿佛雕像的凝视，
　　她的声音，遥远，平静，冷峻，
　　就像没入虚无的你挚爱的声音。
　　
　　灵石 译
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　永远不再
　　
　　
　　回忆，回忆，你要我如何？秋天
　　萧索的空气里，一只斑鸠正飞远，
　　树林上空，太阳单调而昏倦，
　　黄叶应和着北风尖利的叫喊。
　　
　　那时，我俩单独走着，沉在梦里，
　　我和她，头发和思绪在风中飘起。
　　突然，她动人的目光将我凝视，
　　问我，“你最幸福的一天是？……”
　　
　　声音甜美清脆，带着天使般的色泽，
　　我没有回答，只是羞涩地笑着，
　　在她洁白的手上印一个虔诚的吻。
　　
　　——啊，最初的花总是那么芳香，
　　最初的允诺总是那么销魂，
　　恋人唇间的呢喃，魔幻的音响！
　　
　　灵石 译
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　放弃
　　
　　
　　小时候，我常梦想科伊努尔*钻石，
　　梦想如波斯和古罗马一样的奢华，
　　啊，就像赫利加巴**和萨达纳帕***！
　　
　　在欲望建造的金瓦的殿宇里，
　　被无数香料和不歇的音乐包围，
　　我变出连绵的宫室，天堂的美！
　　
　　如今，我更沉稳，激情不减，
　　但也知道妥协是生活的功课，
　　我不得不把幻想的缰绳紧握，
　　却也没有因此放弃一切心愿。
　　
　　罢了！伟大的东西已离我太远，
　　可我绝不接受平庸的快乐！
　　我也永远憎恶美女的婆娑，
　　动听的韵和朋友谨慎的规劝。
　　
　　灵石 译
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　感伤的对话
　　
　　
　　古旧的园子，冰冷，落寞，
　　两个暗影刚从那里经过。
　　
　　他们的眼空洞，唇干瘪，
　　话音飘缈，几乎难以捕捉。
　　
　　古旧的园子，落寞，冰冷，
　　两个鬼魂追忆着过去的情景。
　　
　　——你可记得那些幸福时光？
　　——你为什么还要让我回想？
　　
　　——你的心依然把我的名轻呼？
　　你的梦依然为我的魂开启？——不。
　　
　　——啊！那些美丽的日子难以描画，
　　我们的唇曾怎样亲密！——可能吧。
　　
　　——那时天多蓝，希望多灿烂！
　　——希望已破灭，遁入了黑暗。
　　
　　他们走进荒芜的燕麦丛中，
　　只有沉默的夜继续倾听。
　　
　　灵石 译
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　月光曲
　　
　　
　　你的魂是片迷幻的风景
　　斑衣的俳优在那里游行，
　　他们弹琴而且跳舞——终竟
　　彩装下掩不住欲颦的心。
　　
　　他们虽也曼声低唱，歌颂
　　那胜利的爱和美满的生，
　　终不敢自信他们的好梦，
　　他们的歌声却散入月明——
　　
　　散入微茫，凄美的月明里，
　　去萦绕树上小鸟的梦魂，
　　又使喷泉在白石丛深处
　　喷出丝丝的欢乐的咽声。
　　
　　梁宗岱 译
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　白色的月
　　
　　
　　白色的月
　　照着幽林，
　　离披的叶
　　时吐轻音，
　　声声清切：
　　
　　哦，我的爱人！
　　
　　一泓澄碧，
　　净的琉璃，
　　微波闪烁，
　　柳影依依——
　　风在叹息：
　　
　　梦罢，正其时。
　　
　　无边的静
　　温婉，慈祥，
　　万丈虹影
　　垂自穹苍
　　五色映辉……
　　
　　幸福的辰光！
　　
　　梁宗岱 译
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　泪流在我心里
　　
　　
　　泪流在我心里，
　　雨在城上淅沥：
　　哪来的一阵凄楚
　　滴得我这般惨戚？
　　
　　啊，温柔的雨声！
　　地上和屋顶应和。
　　对于苦闷的心
　　啊，雨的歌！
　　
　　尽这样无端地流，
　　流得我心好酸！
　　怎么？全无止休？
　　这哀感也无端！
　　
　　可有更大的苦痛
　　教人慰解无从？
　　既无爱又无憎，
　　我的心却这般疼。
　　
　　梁宗岱 译
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　了悟
　　
　　
　　屋瓦上，一方天空，
　　多蓝多静！
　　屋瓦上，一株棕榈，
　　枝叶摇动。
　　
　　天空下，一口大钟
　　甜蜜地响。
　　棕榈树上，一只鸟
　　哀伤地唱。
　　
　　主啊，那才是生活
　　纯朴安谧，
　　那和平的喧嚷之声
　　来自城市。
　　
　　——你呀，为何在这里
　　泪流不止？
　　说呀，你的青春究竟
　　怎样虚掷？
　　
　　灵石 译
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　小夜曲
　　
　　
　　就像死者，在坟墓的深心
　　唱着寂寂的歌，
　　情人，请听我嘶哑的嗓音
　　爬向你的居所。
　　
　　请敞开灵魂和耳朵，迎接
　　曼陀铃的乐声：
　　这首歌是为你，为你而写
　　残忍，又痴情。
　　
　　我唱你的眼睛，晴朗纯洁
　　犹如玛瑙黄金，
　　你的怀抱仿佛忘川，黑发
　　仿佛冥河深沉。
　　
　　就像死者，在坟墓的深心
　　唱着寂寂的歌，
　　情人，请听我嘶哑的嗓音
　　爬向你的居所。
　　
　　当然，我还要尽情地颂赞
　　我钟爱的身体，
　　它浓郁的香气总让我想念
　　在不眠的夜里。
　　
　　在歌的最后，我还要描绘
　　你的唇你的吻，
　　它们摧残我，却令我沉醉
　　——天使！仇人！
　　
　　请敞开灵魂和耳朵，迎接
　　曼陀铃的乐声：
　　这首歌是为你，为你而写
　　残忍，又痴情。
　　
　　灵石 译
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　
　　秋歌
　　
　　
　　秋日里
　　 呜咽的
　　 小提琴
　　单调的
　　 忧郁里
　　 慰我心。
　　
　　钟响时
　　 我窒息
　　 而惊惕
　　黯回想
　　 旧时光
　　 我哭泣。
　　
　　恍惚间
　　 狂风卷
　　 我飞离
　　近又远
　　 如一片
　　 死叶子。
　　
　　灵石 译
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　
　　多情的散步
　　
　　
　　夕阳倾洒着最后的霞光，
　　晚风轻摇着苍白的睡莲；
　　巨大的睡莲，在芦苇中间
　　在宁静的水面凄凄闪亮。
　　我带着创伤，沿着水塘，
　　独自在柳；林中漫游，
　　迷茫的夜雾显出一个
　　巨大的白色幽灵，它
　　死亡、哭泣、声如野鸭，
　　野鸭拍着翅膀
　　在我带着创伤
　　独自漫游的柳林中
　　浮想联翩；厚厚的浓黑
　　在这白浪里，淹没了夕阳
　　最后的霞光，淹没了芦苇间，
　　宁静的水面上巨大的睡莲。
　　
　　小跃 译
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　
　　神秘之夜的黄昏
　　
　　
　　回忆伴随着黄昏
　　在火热的天际发红、抖颤
　　燃烧着的希望后退着
　　增大着，就象一堵
　　神秘的墙，那儿，无数鲜花
　　——大丽菊，百合，郁金香，毛艮——
　　立在栅栏四周，散发出
　　沉重、温热的花香
　　病态的气息，那恶味
　　——大丽菊，百合，郁金香，毛艮——
　　淹没了我的感官、灵魂和理智
　　在一阵巨大的昏厥中，混杂在，
　　伴随着黄昏的回忆里。
　　
　　小跃 译
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　
　　夕阳
　　
　　
　　无力的黎明
　　把夕阳的忧郁
　　倾洒在
　　田野上面。
　　这忧郁
　　用温柔的歌
　　抚慰我的心，心
　　在夕阳中遗忘。
　　奇异的梦境
　　仿佛就象
　　沙滩上的夕阳。
　　红色的幽灵
　　不停地前行
　　前行，就好象
　　那沙滩上面
　　巨大的夕阳。　
　　
　　小跃 译
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　
　　苦恼
　　
　　
　　西西里牧歌鲜红的回音，
　　肥沃的田野，悲壮的夕阳，
　　还有色彩绚丽的霞光，
　　大自然啊，你没什么能激动我的心。
　　
　　我嘲笑艺术，也嘲笑人，
　　嘲笑希腊庙宇，嘲笑歌与诗，
　　嘲笑教堂的旋形塔楼，它在浩空耸立，
　　我用同样的目光看着好人与恶棍。
　　
　　我不相信上帝，我放弃和否认
　　所有的思想，至于古老的讽刺，
　　爱情，但愿别再跟我谈起。
　　
　　我的灵魂活腻了，却又怕死，就象是
　　潮水的玩具，葬身大海的小船，
　　它扬帆出海，去迎接可怕的海难。　
　　
　　小跃 译
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　我不知道为什么
　　
　　我不知道为什么
　　我那痛苦的精灵
　　张开惶恐而疯狂的翅膀，在大海上飞行。
　　这一切，对我都十分珍贵，
　　用一扇恐惧的翅膀
　　我的爱紧贴着波浪将它护卫。为什么？为什么？
　　
　　海鸥，惆怅而迷惘地飞着，
　　追逐着波浪，我的思绪
　　也在动荡的大海上随风飘飞，
　　潮汐汹涌，海天倾斜。
　　海鸥，惆怅而迷惘地飞着。
　　
　　在阳光中沉醉，
　　在自由中腾飞，
　　一种本能指引着他穿过这茫茫苍穹。
　　夏日的和风
　　掠过泛红的波澜
　　轻轻地把它带入温暖朦胧的天地。
　　
　　有时，它也发出凄厉的叫喊，
　　为远方的领航员报警，
　　随即又醉入风中，滑翔飞行
　　钻入浪谷，撞伤了羽翼，
　　再次腾飞，又是凄厉的叫喊！
　　
　　我不知道为什么
　　我那痛苦的精灵
　　张开惶恐而疯狂的翅膀，在大海上飞行。
　　这一切，对我都十分珍贵，
　　用一扇恐惧的翅膀
　　我的爱紧贴着波浪将它护卫。为什么？为什么？
　　
　　陈中林 译
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　在你还没有消失……
　　
　　
　　在你还没有消失，
　　苍白黯淡的晨星，
　　－鹌鹑千只
　　唱了，唱在百里香的花丛－
　　
　　转向诗人吧，
　　他的眼里充满着爱情；
　　－云雀啊，云雀
　　和晨曦一起飞向苍穹－
　　
　　转动你的目光吧，
　　曙光把它溶入蓝天
　　－多么愉快啊
　　倘佯在这飘香的麦田！－
　　
　　然后，请点亮我的思想，
　　那边，远远地，远远地呦，
　　－露珠晶亮
　　喜悦地闪在草尖。－
　　
　　甜蜜的梦里，激动着
　　我那还在恬睡的爱人……
　　－快，快起来吧，
　　看那金红的朝阳升腾！－
　　
　　陈中林译

　　POEMS OF PAUL VERLAINE
　　Translated by Gertrude Hall
　　
　　Contents
　　
　　
　　I. FÊTES GALANTES
　　
　　Clair de Lune
　　Sur L'Herbe
　　L'Allée
　　A la Promenade
　　Le Faune
　　Mandoline
　　L'Amour Par Terre
　　En Sourdine
　　Colloque Sentimental
　　
　　II. LA BONNE CHANSON
　　
　　Since Shade Relents, Since 'Tis Indeed the Day
　　Before Your Light Quite Fail
　　O'er the Wood's Brow
　　The Scene Behind the Carriage Windowpanes
　　The Rosy Hearth, The Lamplight's Narrow Beam
　　It Shall Be, Then, Upon a Summer's Day
　　
　　III. ROMANCES SANS PAROLES
　　
　　ARIETTES OUBLIÉES
　　It Weeps In My Heart
　　The Keyboard, Over Which Two Slim Hands Float
　　O Heavy, Heavy My Despair
　　The Trees' Reflection in the Misty Stream
　　
　　PAYSAGES BELGES
　　Bruxelles
　　
　　BIRDS IN THE NIGHT
　　You Were Not Over-patient with Me, Dear
　　But You Will Own That I was in the Right
　　And Wherefore Should I Lay My Heartwounds Bare?
　　Now I Do Not Intend--What Were the Gain?
　　I See You Still. I Softly Pushed the door
　　I See You Still. I Softly Dressed in a Summer Dress
　　Some Moments I'm the Tempest-driven Bark
　　
　　AQUARELLES
　　Green
　　Spleen
　　Streets
　　
　　IV. SAGESSE
　　
　　What Sayst Thou, Traveller, Of All Thou Saw'st Afar?
　　The False Fair Days
　　Give Ear Unto the Gentle Lay
　　I've Seen Again the One Child: Verily
　　"Son, Thou Must Love Me!--See-" My Saviour Said
　　Hope Shines--As in a Stable a Wisp of Straw
　　Sleep, Darksome, Deep
　　The Sky-Blue Smiles Above the Roof
　　It Is You, It Is You, Poor Better Thoughts
　　'Tis the Feast of Corn, 'Tis the Feast of Bread
　　
　　V. JADIS ET NAGUÈRE
　　JADIS
　　Prologue
　　Langueur
　　NAGUÈRE
　　Prologue
　　
　　VI. PARALLÈLEMENT
　　
　　Impression Fausse
　　
　　VII. POÈMES SATURNIENS
　　
　　Prologue
　　
　　MELANCHOLIA
　　Nevermore
　　Après Trois Ans
　　Mon Rêve Familier
　　A Une Femme
　　
　　PAYSAGES TRISTES
　　Chanson D'Automne
　　Le Rossignol
　　
　　CAPRICES
　　Il Bacio
　　
　　ÉPILOGUE
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　Fêtes Galantes
　　
　　[Illustration: "Clair De Lune"]
　　
　　CLAIR DE LUNE.
　　
　　Your soul is as a moonlit landscape fair,
　　 Peopled with maskers delicate and dim,
　　That play on lutes and dance and have an air
　　 Of being sad in their fantastic trim.
　　
　　The while they celebrate in minor strain
　　 Triumphant love, effective enterprise,
　　They have an air of knowing all is vain,--
　　 And through the quiet moonlight their songs rise,
　　
　　The melancholy moonlight, sweet and lone,
　　 That makes to dream the birds upon the tree,
　　And in their polished basins of white stone
　　 The fountains tall to sob with ecstasy.
　　
　　
　　SUR L'HERBE.
　　
　　"The abbé rambles."--"You, marquis,
　　 Have put your wig on all awry."--
　　"This wine of Cyprus kindles me
　　 Less, my Camargo, than your eye!"
　　
　　"My passion"--"Do, mi, sol, la, si."--
　　 "Abbé, your villany lies bare."--
　　"Mesdames, I climb up yonder tree
　　 And fetch a star down, I declare."
　　
　　"Let each kiss his own lady, then
　　 The others."--"Would that I were, too,
　　A lap-dog!"--"Softly, gentlemen!"--
　　 "Do, mi."--"The moon!"--"Hey, how d'ye do?"
　　
　　
　　L' ALLÉE.
　　
　　Powdered and rouged as in the sheepcotes' day,
　　Fragile 'mid her enormous ribbon bows,
　　Along the shaded alley, where green grows
　　The moss on the old seats, she wends her way
　　With mincing graces and affected airs,
　　Such as more oft a petted parrot wears.
　　Her long gown with the train is blue; the fan
　　She spreads between her jewelled fingers slim
　　Is merry with a love-scene, of so dim
　　Suggestion, her eyes smile the while they scan.
　　Blonde; dainty nose; plump, cherry lips, divine
　　With pride unconscious.--Subtler, certainly,
　　Than is the mouche there set to underline
　　The rather foolish brightness of the eye.
　　
　　
　　A LA PROMENADE.
　　
　　The milky sky, the hazy, slender trees,
　　 Seem smiling on the light costumes we wear,--
　　 Our gauzy floating veils that have an air
　　Of wings, our satins fluttering in the breeze.
　　
　　And in the marble bowl the ripples gleam,
　　 And through the lindens of the avenue
　　 The sifted golden sun comes to us blue
　　And dying, like the sunshine of a dream.
　　
　　Exquisite triflers and deceivers rare,
　　 Tender of heart, but little tied by vows,
　　 Deliciously we dally 'neath the boughs,
　　And playfully the lovers plague the fair.
　　
　　Receiving, should they overstep a point,
　　 A buffet from a hand absurdly small,
　　 At which upon a gallant knee they fall
　　To kiss the little finger's littlest joint.
　　
　　And as this is a shocking liberty,
　　 A frigid glance rewards the daring swain,--
　　 Not quite o'erbalancing with its disdain
　　The red mouth's reassuring clemency.
　　
　　
　　LE FAUNE.
　　
　　An ancient terra-cotta Faun,
　　 A laughing note in 'mid the green,
　　Grins at us from the central lawn,
　　 With secret and sarcastic mien.
　　
　　It is that he foresees, perchance,
　　 A bad end to the moments dear
　　That with gay music and light dance
　　 Have led us, pensive pilgrims, here.
　　
　　
　　MANDOLINE.
　　
　　The courtly serenaders,
　　 The beauteous listeners,
　　Sit idling 'neath the branches
　　 A balmy zephyr stirs.
　　
　　It's Tircis and Aminta,
　　 Clitandre,--ever there!--
　　Damis, of melting sonnets
　　 To many a frosty fair.
　　
　　Their trailing flowery dresses,
　　 Their fine beflowered coats,
　　Their elegance and lightness,
　　 And shadows blue,--all floats
　　
　　And mingles,--circling, wreathing,
　　 In moonlight opaline,
　　While through the zephyr's harping
　　 Tinkles the mandoline.
　　
　　
　　L'AMOUR PAR TERRE
　　
　　The wind the other night blew down the Love
　　 That in the dimmest corner of the park
　　 So subtly used to smile, bending his arc,
　　And sight of whom did us so deeply move
　　
　　One day! The other night's wind blew him down!
　　 The marble dust whirls in the morning breeze.
　　 Oh, sad to view, o'erblotted by the trees,
　　There on the base, the name of great renown!
　　
　　Oh, sad to view the empty pedestal!
　　 And melancholy fancies come and go
　　 Across my dream, whereon a day of woe
　　Foreshadowed is--I know what will befall!
　　
　　Oh, sad!--And you are saddened also, Sweet,
　　 Are not you, by this scene? although your eye
　　 Pursues the gold and purple butterfly
　　That flutters o'er the wreck strewn at our feet.
　　
　　
　　[Illustration: "En Sourdine"]
　　
　　EN SOURDINE
　　
　　Tranquil in the twilight dense
　　 By the spreading branches made,
　　Let us breathe the influence
　　 Of the silence and the shade.
　　
　　Let your heart melt into mine,
　　 And your soul reach out to me,
　　'Mid the languors of the pine
　　 And the sighing arbute-tree.
　　
　　Close your eyes, your hands let be
　　 Folded on your slumbering heart,
　　From whose hold all treachery
　　 Drive forever, and all art.
　　
　　Let us with the hour accord!
　　 Let us let the gentle wind,
　　Rippling in the sunburnt sward,
　　 Bring us to a patient mind!
　　
　　And when Night across the air
　　 Shall her solemn shadow fling,
　　Touching voice of our despair,
　　 Long the nightingale shall sing.
　　
　　
　　COLLOQUE SENTIMENTAL
　　
　　In the deserted park, silent and vast,
　　Erewhile two shadowy glimmering figures passed.
　　
　　Their lips were colorless, and dead their eyes;
　　Their words were scarce more audible than sighs.
　　
　　In the deserted park, silent and vast,
　　Two spectres conjured up the buried past.
　　
　　"Our ancient ecstasy, do you recall?"
　　"Why, pray, should I remember it at all?"
　　
　　"Does still your heart at mention of me glow?
　　Do still you see my soul in slumber?" "No!"
　　
　　"Ah, blessed, blissful days when our lips met!
　　You loved me so!" "Quite likely,--I forget."
　　
　　"How sweet was hope, the sky how blue and fair!"
　　"The sky grew black, the hope became despair."
　　
　　Thus walked they 'mid the frozen weeds, these dead,
　　And Night alone o'erheard the things they said.
　　
　　
　　
　　La Bonne Chanson
　　
　　SINCE SHADE RELENTS
　　
　　Since shade relents, since 'tis indeed the day,
　　 Since hope I long had deemed forever flown,
　　Wings back to me that call on her and pray,
　　 Since so much joy consents to be my own,--
　　
　　The dark designs all I relinquish here,
　　 And all the evil dreams. Ah, done am I
　　Above all with the narrowed lips, the sneer,
　　 The heartless wit that laughed where one should sigh.
　　
　　Away, clenched fist and bosom's angry swell,
　　 That knave and fool at every turn abound.
　　Away, hard unforgivingness! Farewell,
　　 Oblivion in a hated brewage found!
　　
　　For I mean, now a Being of the Morn
　　 Has shed across my night excelling rays
　　Of love at once immortal and newborn,--
　　 By favor of her smile, her glance, her grace,
　　
　　I mean by you upheld, O gentle hand,
　　 Wherein mine trembles,--led, sweet eyes, by you,
　　To walk straight, lie the path o'er mossy land
　　 Or barren waste that rocks and pebbles strew.
　　
　　Yes, calm I mean to walk through life, and straight,
　　 Patient of all, unanxious of the goal,
　　Void of all envy, violence, or hate
　　 It shall be duty done with cheerful soul.
　　
　　And as I may, to lighten the long way,
　　 Go singing airs ingenuous and brave,
　　She'll listen to me graciously, I say,--
　　 And, verily, no other heaven I crave.
　　
　　
　　
　　[Illustration: "Avant Que Tu T'en Ailles."]
　　
　　
　　BEFORE YOUR LIGHT QUITE FAIL
　　
　　Before your light quite fail,
　　Already paling star,
　　 (The quail
　　Sings in the thyme afar!)
　　
　　Turn on the poet's eyes
　　That love makes overrun--
　　 (See rise
　　The lark to meet the sun!)
　　
　　Your glance, that presently
　　Must drown in the blue morn;
　　 (What glee
　　Amid the rustling corn!)
　　
　　Then flash my message true
　　Down yonder,--far away!--
　　 (The dew
　　Lies sparkling on the hay.)
　　
　　Across what visions seek
　　The Dear One slumbering still.
　　 (Quick, quick!
　　The sun has reached the hill!)
　　
　　
　　
　　O'ER THE WOOD'S BROW
　　
　　O'er the wood's brow,
　　 Pale, the moon stares;
　　In every bough
　　 Wandering airs
　　Faintly suspire. . . .
　　
　　O heart's-desire!
　　
　　Two willow-trees
　　 Waver and weep,
　　One in the breeze,
　　 One in the deep
　　Glass of the stream. . . .
　　
　　Dream we our dream!
　　
　　An infinite
　　 Resignedness
　　Rains where the white
　　 Mists opalesce
　　In the moon-shower. . . .
　　
　　Stay, perfect hour!
　　
　　
　　THE SCENE BEHIND THE CARRIAGE WINDOW-PANES
　　
　　The scene behind the carriage window-panes
　　Goes flitting past in furious flight; whole plains
　　With streams and harvest-fields and trees and blue
　　Are swallowed by the whirlpool, whereinto
　　The telegraph's slim pillars topple o'er,
　　Whose wires look strangely like a music-score.
　　
　　A smell of smoke and steam, a horrid din
　　As of a thousand clanking chains that pin
　　A thousand giants that are whipped and howl,--
　　And, suddenly, long hoots as of an owl.
　　
　　What is it all to me? Since in mine eyes
　　The vision lingers that beatifies,
　　Since still the soft voice murmurs in mine ear,
　　And since the Name, so sweet, so high, so dear,
　　Pure pivot of this madding whirl, prevails
　　Above the brutal clangor of the rails?
　　
　　
　　
　　THE ROSY HEARTH, THE LAMPLIGHT'S NARROW BEAM
　　
　　The rosy hearth, the lamplight's narrow beam,
　　The meditation that is rather dream,
　　With looks that lose themselves in cherished looks;
　　The hour of steaming tea and banished books;
　　The sweetness of the evening at an end,
　　The dear fatigue, and right to rest attained,
　　And worshipped expectation of the night,--
　　Oh, all these things, in unrelenting flight,
　　My dream pursues through all the vain delays,
　　Impatient of the weeks, mad at the days!
　　
　　
　　
　　IT SHALL BE, THEN, UPON A SUMMER'S DAY
　　
　　It shall be, then, upon a summer's day:
　　 The sun, my joy's accomplice, bright shall shine,
　　 And add, amid your silk and satin fine,
　　To your dear radiance still another ray;
　　
　　The heavens, like a sumptuous canopy,
　　 Shall shake out their blue folds to droop and trail
　　 About our happy brows, that shall be pale
　　With so much gladness, such expectancy;
　　
　　And when day closes, soft shall be the air
　　 That in your snowy veils, caressing, plays,
　　 And with soft-smiling eyes the stars shall gaze
　　Benignantly upon the wedded pair.
　　
　　
　　
　　Romances sans Paroles
　　
　　
　　Ariettes Oubliées
　　
　　
　　Il pleut doucement sur la ville.--ARTHUR RIMBAUD
　　
　　It weeps in my heart
　　As it rains on the town.
　　What is this dull smart
　　Possessing my heart?
　　
　　Soft sound of the rain
　　On the ground and the roofs!
　　To a heart in pain,
　　O the song of the rain!
　　
　　It weeps without cause
　　In my heart-sick heart.
　　In her faith, what? no flaws?
　　This grief has no cause.
　　
　　'Tis sure the worst woe
　　To know not wherefore
　　My heart suffers so
　　Without joy or woe.
　　
　　
　　Son joyeux, importun, d'un clavecin sonore.--PÉTRUS BOREL
　　
　　The keyboard, over which two slim hands float,
　　Shines vaguely in the twilight pink and gray,
　　Whilst with a sound like wings, note after note
　　Takes flight to form a pensive little lay
　　That strays, discreet and charming, faint, remote,
　　About the room where perfumes of Her stray.
　　
　　What is this sudden quiet cradling me
　　To that dim ditty's dreamy rise and fall?
　　What do you want with me, pale melody?
　　What is it that you want, ghost musical
　　That fade toward the window waveringly
　　A little open on the garden small?
　　
　　
　　[Illustration: "Le Piano Que Baise Une Main Frêle"]
　　
　　
　　Oh, heavy, heavy my despair,
　　Because, because of One so fair.
　　
　　My misery knows no allay,
　　Although my heart has come away.
　　
　　Although my heart, although my soul,
　　Have fled the fatal One's control.
　　
　　My misery knows no allay,
　　Although my heart has come away.
　　
　　My heart, the too, too feeling one,
　　Says to my soul, "Can it be done,
　　
　　"Can it be done, too feeling heart,
　　That we from her shall live apart?"
　　
　　My soul says to my heart, "Know I
　　What this strange pitfall should imply,
　　
　　"That we, though far from her, are near,
　　Yea, present, though in exile here?"
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　Le rossignol qui du haut d'une branche se regarde
　　dedans, croit être tombé dans la rivière. Il est au sommet
　　d'un chene, et toutefois il a peur de se noyer.
　　 CYRANO DE BERGERAC.
　　
　　The trees' reflection in the misty stream
　　 Dies off in livid steam;
　　Whilst up among the actual boughs, forlorn,
　　 The tender wood-doves mourn.
　　
　　How wan the face, O traveller, this wan
　　 Gray landscape looked upon;
　　And how forlornly in the high tree-tops
　　 Lamented thy drowned hopes!
　　
　　
　　Paysages Belges
　　
　　
　　BRUXELLES
　　
　　Hills and fences hurry by
　　Blent in greenish-rosy flight,
　　And the yellow carriage-light
　　Blurs all to the half-shut eye.
　　
　　Slowly turns the gold to red
　　O'er the humble darkening vales;
　　Little trees that flatly spread,
　　Where some feeble birdling wails.
　　
　　Scarcely sad, so mild and fair
　　This enfolding Autumn seems;
　　All my moody languor dreams,
　　Cradled by the gentle air.
　　
　　
　　Birds in the Night
　　
　　 I
　　You were not over-patient with me, dear;
　　 This want of patience one must rightly rate:
　　You are so young! Youth ever was severe
　　 And variable and inconsiderate!
　　
　　You had not all the needful kindness, no;
　　 Nor should one be amazed, unhappily:
　　You're very young, cold sister mine, and so
　　 'Tis natural you should unfeeling be!
　　
　　Behold me therefore ready to forgive;
　　 Not gay, of course! but doing what I can
　　To bear up bravely,--deeply though I grieve
　　 To be, through you, the most unhappy man.
　　
　　
　　 II
　　But you will own that I was in the right
　　 When in my downcast moods I used to say
　　That your sweet eyes, my hope, once, and delight!
　　 Were come to look like eyes that will betray.
　　
　　It was an evil lie, you used to swear,
　　 And your glance, which was lying, dear, would flame,--
　　Poor fire, near out, one stirs to make it flare!--
　　 And in your soft voice you would say, "Je t'aime!"
　　
　　Alas! that one should clutch at happiness
　　 In sense's, season's, everything's despite!--
　　But 'twas an hour of gleeful bitterness
　　 When I became convinced that I was right!
　　
　　
　　
　　 III
　　And wherefore should I lay my heart-wounds bare?
　　 You love me not,--an end there, lady mine;
　　And as I do not choose that one shall dare
　　 To pity,--I must suffer without sign.
　　
　　Yes, suffer! For I loved you well, did I,--
　　 But like a loyal soldier will I stand
　　Till, hurt to death, he staggers off to die,
　　 Still filled with love for an ungrateful land.
　　
　　O you that were my Beauty and my Own,
　　 Although from you derive all my mischance,
　　Are not you still my Home, then, you alone,
　　 As young and mad and beautiful as France?
　　
　　
　　 IV
　　Now I do not intend--what were the gain?--
　　 To dwell with streaming eyes upon the past;
　　But yet my love which you may think lies slain,
　　 Perhaps is only wide awake at last.
　　
　　My love, perhaps,--which now is memory!--
　　 Although beneath your blows it cringe and cry
　　And bleed to will, and must, as I foresee,
　　 Still suffer long and much before it die,--
　　
　　Judges you justly when it seems aware
　　 Of some not all banal compunction,
　　And of your memory in its despair
　　 Reproaching you, "Ah, fi! it was ill done!"
　　
　　
　　 V
　　I see you still. I softly pushed the door--
　　 As one o'erwhelmed with weariness you lay;
　　But O light body love should soon restore,
　　 You bounded up, tearful at once and gay.
　　
　　O what embraces, kisses sweet and wild!
　　 Myself, from brimming eyes I laughed to you
　　Those moments, among all, O lovely child,
　　 Shall be my saddest, but my sweetest, too.
　　
　　I will remember your smile, your caress,
　　 Your eyes, so kind that day,--exquisite snare!--
　　Yourself, in fine, whom else I might not bless,
　　Only as they appeared, not as they were.
　　
　　
　　 VI
　　I see you still! Dressed in a summer dress,
　　 Yellow and white, bestrewn with curtain-flowers;
　　But you had lost the glistening laughingness
　　 Of our delirious former loving hours.
　　
　　The eldest daughter and the little wife
　　 Spoke plainly in your bearing's least detail,--
　　Already 'twas, alas! our altered life
　　 That stared me from behind your dotted veil.
　　
　　Forgiven be! And with no little pride
　　 I treasure up,--and you, no doubt, see why,--
　　Remembrance of the lightning to one side
　　 That used to flash from your indignant eye!
　　
　　
　　 VII
　　Some moments, I'm the tempest-driven bark
　　 That runs dismasted mid the hissing spray,
　　And seeing not Our Lady through the dark
　　 Makes ready to be drowned, and kneels to pray.
　　
　　Some moments, I'm the sinner at his end,
　　 That knows his doom if he unshriven go,
　　And losing hope of any ghostly friend,
　　 Sees Hell already gape, and feels it glow.
　　
　　Oh, but! Some moments, I've the spirit stout
　　 Of early Christians in the lion's care,
　　That smile to Jesus witnessing, without
　　 A nerve's revolt, the turning of a hair!
　　
　　
　　
　　Aquarelles
　　
　　
　　GREEN
　　
　　See, blossoms, branches, fruit, leaves I have brought,
　　 And then my heart that for you only sighs;
　　With those white hands of yours, oh, tear it not,
　　 But let the poor gift prosper in your eyes.
　　
　　The dew upon my hair is still undried,--
　　 The morning wind strikes chilly where it fell.
　　Suffer my weariness here at your side
　　 To dream the hour that shall it quite dispel.
　　
　　Allow my head, that rings and echoes still
　　 With your last kiss, to lie upon your breast,
　　Till it recover from the stormy thrill,--
　　 And let me sleep a little, since you rest.
　　
　　
　　
　　SPLEEN
　　
　　The roses were so red, so red,
　　 The ivies altogether black.
　　
　　If you but merely turn your head,
　　 Beloved, all my despairs come back!
　　
　　The sky was over-sweet and blue,
　　 Too melting green the sea did show.
　　
　　I always fear,--if you but knew!--
　　 From your dear hand some killing blow.
　　
　　Weary am I of holly-tree
　　 And shining box and waving grass
　　
　　Upon the tame unending lea,--
　　 And all and all but you, alas!
　　
　　
　　STREETS
　　
　　 Let's dance the jig!
　　
　　Above all else I loved her eyes,
　　More clear than stars of cloudless skies,
　　And arch and mischievous and wise.
　　
　　 Let's dance the jig!
　　
　　So skilfully would she proceed
　　To make a lover's bare heart bleed,
　　That it was beautiful indeed!
　　
　　 Let's dance the jig!
　　
　　But keenlier have I relished
　　The kisses of her mouth so red
　　Since to my heart she has been dead.
　　
　　 Let's dance the jig!
　　
　　The circumstances great and small,--
　　Words, moments . . . I recall, recall
　　It is my treasure among all.
　　
　　 Let's dance the jig!
　　
　　
　　
　　Sagesse
　　
　　WHAT SAYST THOU, TRAVELLER, OF ALL THOU SAW'ST AFAR?
　　
　　What sayst thou, traveller, of all thou saw'st afar?
　　 On every tree hangs boredom, ripening to its fall,
　　Didst gather it, thou smoking yon thy sad cigar,
　　 Black, casting an incongruous shadow on the wall?
　　
　　Thine eyes are just as dead as ever they have been,
　　 Unchanged is thy grimace, thy dolefulness is one,
　　Thou mind'st one of the wan moon through the rigging seen,
　　 The wrinkled sea beneath the golden morning sun,
　　
　　The ancient graveyard with new gravestones every day,--
　　 But, come, regale us with appropriate detail,
　　Those disillusions weeping at the fountains, say,
　　 Those new disgusts, just like their brothers, littered stale,
　　
　　Those women! Say the glare, the identical dismay
　　 Of ugliness and evil, always, in all lands,
　　And say Love, too,--and Politics, moreover, say,
　　 With ink-dishonored blood upon their shameless hands.
　　
　　And then, above all else, neglect not to recite
　　 Thy proper feats, thou dragging thy simplicity
　　Wherever people love, wherever people fight,
　　 In such a sad and foolish kind, in verity!
　　
　　Has that dull innocence been punished as it should?
　　 What say'st thou? Man is hard,--but woman? And thy tears,
　　Who has been drinking? And into what ear so good
　　 Dost pour thy woes for it to pour in other ears?
　　
　　Ah, others! ah, thyself! Gulled with such curious ease,
　　 That used to dream (Doth not the soul with laughter fill?)
　　One knows not what poetic, delicate decease,--
　　 Thou sort of angel with the paralytic will!
　　
　　But now what are thy plans, thine aims? Art thou of might?
　　 Or has long shedding tears disqualified thy heart?
　　The tree is scarcely hardy, judging it at sight,
　　 And by thy looks no topping conqueror thou art.
　　
　　So awkward, too! With the additional offence
　　 Of being now a sort of dazed idyllic bard
　　That poses in a window, contemplating thence
　　 The silly noon-day sky with an impressed regard.
　　
　　So totally the same in this extreme decay!
　　 But in thy place a being with some sense, pardy,
　　Would wish at least to lead the dance, since he must pay
　　 The fiddlers,--at some risk of flutt'ring passers-by!
　　
　　Canst not, by rummaging within thy consciousness,
　　 Find some bright vice to bare, as 't were a flashing sword?
　　Some gay, audacious vice, which wield with dexterousness,
　　 And make to shine, and shoot red lightnings Heavenward!
　　
　　Hast one, or more? If more, the better! And plunge in,
　　 And bravely lay about thee, indiscriminate,
　　And wear that face of indolence that masks the grin
　　 Of hate at once full-feasted and insatiate.
　　
　　Not well to be a dupe in this good universe,
　　 Where there is nothing to allure in happiness
　　Save in it wriggle aught of shameful and perverse,--
　　 And not to be a dupe, one must be merciless!
　　
　　--Ah, human wisdom, ah, new things have claimed mine eyes,
　　 And of that past--of weary recollection!--
　　Thy voice described, for still more sinister advice,
　　 All I remember is the evil I have done.
　　
　　In all the curious movements of my sad career,
　　 Of others and myself, the chequered road I trod,
　　Of my accounted sorrows, good and evil cheer,
　　 I nothing have retained except the grace of God!
　　
　　If I am punished, 'tis most fit I should be so;
　　 Played to its end is mortal man's and woman's rôle,--
　　But steadfastly I hope I too one day shall know
　　 The peace and pardon promised every Christian soul.
　　
　　Well not to be a dupe in this world of a day,
　　 But not to be one in the world that hath no end,
　　That which it doth behoove the soul to be and stay
　　 Is merciful, not merciless,--deluded friend.
　　
　　
　　THE FALSE FAIR DAYS
　　
　　The false fair days have flamed the livelong day,
　　And still they flicker in the brazen West.
　　Cast down thine eyes, poor soul, shut out the unblest:
　　A deadliest temptation. Come away.
　　
　　All day they flashed in flakes of fire, that lay
　　The vintage low upon the hill's green breast,
　　The harvest low,--and o'er that faithfullest,
　　The blue sky ever beckoning, shed dismay.
　　
　　Oh, clasp thy hands, grow pale, and turn again!
　　If all the future savoured of the past?
　　If the old insanity were on its way?
　　
　　Those memories, must each anew be slain?
　　One fierce assault, the best, no doubt, the last!
　　Go pray against the gathering storm, go pray!
　　
　　
　　GIVE EAR UNTO THE GENTLE LAY
　　
　　Give ear unto the gentle lay
　　That's only sad that it may please;
　　It is discreet, and light it is:
　　A whiff of wind o'er buds in May.
　　
　　The voice was known to you (and dear?),
　　But it is muffled latterly
　　As is a widow,--still, as she
　　It doth its sorrow proudly bear,
　　
　　And through the sweeping mourning veil
　　That in the gusts of Autumn blows,
　　Unto the heart that wonders, shows
　　Truth like a star now flash, now fail.
　　
　　It says,--the voice you knew again!--
　　That kindness, goodness is our life,
　　And that of envy, hatred, strife,
　　When death is come, shall naught remain.
　　
　　It says how glorious to be
　　Like children, without more delay,
　　The tender gladness it doth say
　　Of peace not bought with victory.
　　
　　Accept the voice,--ah, hear the whole
　　Of its persistent, artless strain:
　　Naught so can soothe a soul's own pain,
　　As making glad another soul!
　　
　　It pines in bonds but for a day,
　　The soul that without murmur bears. . . .
　　How unperplexed, how free it fares!
　　Oh, listen to the gentle lay!
　　
　　
　　I'VE SEEN AGAIN THE ONE CHILD: VERILY
　　
　　I've seen again the One child: verily,
　　I felt the last wound open in my breast,
　　The last, whose perfect torture doth attest
　　That on some happy day I too shall die!
　　
　　Good icy arrow, piercing thoroughly!
　　Most timely came it from their dreams to wrest
　　The sluggish scruples laid too long to rest,--
　　And all my Christian blood hymned fervently.
　　
　　I still hear, still I see! O worshipped rule
　　Of God! I know at last how comfortful
　　To hear and see! I see, I hear alway!
　　
　　O innocence, O hope! Lowly and mild,
　　How I shall love you, sweet hands of my child,
　　Whose task shall be to close our eyes one day!
　　
　　
　　
　　"SON, THOU MUST LOVE ME! SEE--" MY SAVIOUR SAID
　　
　　"Son, thou must love me! See--" my Saviour said,
　　"My heart that glows and bleeds, my wounded side,
　　My hurt feet that the Magdalene, wet-eyed,
　　Clasps kneeling, and my tortured arms outspread
　　
　　"To bear thy sins. Look on the cross, stained red!
　　The nails, the sponge, that, all, thy soul shall guide
　　To love on earth where flesh thrones in its pride,
　　My Body and Blood alone, thy Wine and Bread.
　　
　　"Have I not loved thee even unto death,
　　O brother mine, son in the Holy Ghost?
　　Have I not suffered, as was writ I must,
　　
　　"And with thine agony sobbed out my breath?
　　Hath not thy nightly sweat bedewed my brow,
　　O lamentable friend that seek'st me now?"
　　
　　
　　[Illustration: "Mon Dieu M'a Dit."]
　　
　　
　　
　　HOPE SHINES--AS IN A STABLE A WISP OF STRAW
　　
　　Hope shines--as in a stable a wisp of straw.
　　Fear not the wasp drunk with his crazy flight!
　　Through some chink always, see, the moted light!
　　Propped on your hand, you dozed--But let me draw
　　
　　Cool water from the well for you, at least,
　　Poor soul! There, drink! Then sleep. See, I remain,
　　And I will sing a slumberous refrain,
　　And you shall murmur like a child appeased.
　　
　　Noon strikes. Approach not, Madam, pray, or call....
　　He sleeps. Strange how a woman's light footfall
　　Re-echoes through the brains of grief-worn men!
　　
　　Noon strikes. I bade them sprinkle in the room.
　　Sleep on! Hope shines--a pebble in the gloom.
　　--When shall the Autumn rose re-blossom,--when?
　　
　　
　　SLEEP, DARKSOME, DEEP
　　
　　Sleep, darksome, deep,
　　 Doth on me fall:
　　Vain hopes all, sleep,
　　 Sleep, yearnings all!
　　
　　Lo, I grow blind!
　　 Lo, right and wrong
　　Fade to my mind....
　　 O sorry song!
　　
　　A cradle, I,
　　 Rocked in a grave:
　　Speak low, pass by,
　　 Silence I crave!
　　
　　
　　[Illustration: Le Ciel et Les Toits.]
　　
　　
　　THE SKY-BLUE SMILES ABOVE THE ROOF
　　
　　The sky-blue smiles above the roof
　　 Its tenderest;
　　A green tree rears above the roof
　　 Its waving crest.
　　
　　The church-bell in the windless sky
　　 Peaceably rings,
　　A skylark soaring in the sky
　　 Endlessly sings.
　　
　　My God, my God, all life is there,
　　 Simple and sweet;
　　The soothing bee-hive murmur there
　　 Comes from the street!
　　
　　What have you done, O you that weep
　　 In the glad sun,--
　　Say, with your youth, you man that weep,
　　 What have you done?
　　
　　
　　
　　IT IS YOU
　　
　　It is you, it is you, poor better thoughts!
　　The needful hope, shame for the ancient blots,
　　Heart's gentleness with mind's severity,
　　And vigilance, and calm, and constancy,
　　And all!--But slow as yet, though well awake;
　　Though sturdy, shy; scarce able yet to break
　　The spell of stifling night and heavy dreams.
　　One comes after the other, and each seems
　　Uncouther, and all fear the moonlight cold.
　　"Thus, sheep when first they issue from the fold,
　　Come,--one, then two, then three. The rest delay,
　　With lowered heads, in stupid, wondering way,
　　Waiting to do as does the one that leads.
　　He stops, they stop in turn, and lay their heads
　　Across his back, simply, not knowing why."*
　　Your shepherd, O my fair flock, is not I,--
　　It is a better, better far, who knows
　　The reasons, He that so long kept you close,
　　But timely with His own hand set you free.
　　Him follow,--light His staff. And I shall be,
　　Beneath his voice still raised to comfort you,
　　I shall be, I, His faithful dog, and true.
　　
　　 * Dante, Purgatorio.
　　
　　
　　
　　'TIS THE FEAST OF CORN
　　
　　'Tis the feast of corn, 'tis the feast of bread,
　　 On the dear scene returned to, witnessed again!
　　So white is the light o'er the reapers shed
　　 Their shadows fall pink on the level grain.
　　
　　The stalked gold drops to the whistling flight
　　 Of the scythes, whose lightning dives deep, leaps clear;
　　The plain, labor-strewn to the confines of sight,
　　 Changes face at each instant, gay and severe.
　　
　　All pants, all is effort and toil 'neath the sun,
　　 The stolid old sun, tranquil ripener of wheat,
　　Who works o'er our haste imperturbably on
　　 To swell the green grape yon, turning it sweet.
　　
　　Work on, faithful sun, for the bread and the wine,
　　 Feed man with the milk of the earth, and bestow
　　The frank glass wherein unconcern laughs divine,--
　　 Ye harvesters, vintagers, work on, aglow!
　　
　　For from the flour's fairest, and from the vine's best,
　　 Fruit of man's strength spread to earth's uttermost,
　　God gathers and reaps, to His purposes blest,
　　 The Flesh and the Blood for the chalice and host!
　　
　　
　　Jadis et Naguère
　　
　　
　　Jadis
　　
　　
　　PROLOGUE
　　
　　Off, be off, now, graceless pack:
　　Get you gone, lost children mine:
　　Your release is earned in fine:
　　The Chimaera lends her back.
　　
　　Huddling on her, go, God-sped,
　　As a dream-horde crowds and cowers
　　Mid the shadowy curtain-flowers
　　Round a sick man's haunted bed.
　　
　　Hold! My hand, unfit before,
　　Feeble still, but feverless,
　　And which palpitates no more
　　Save with a desire to bless,
　　
　　Blesses you, O little flies
　　Of my black suns and white nights.
　　Spread your rustling wings, arise,
　　Little griefs, little delights,
　　
　　Hopes, despairs, dreams foul and fair,
　　All!--renounced since yesterday
　　By my heart that quests elsewhere....
　　Ite, aegri somnia!
　　
　　
　　LANGUEUR
　　
　　I am the Empire in the last of its decline,
　　That sees the tall, fair-haired Barbarians pass,--the while
　　Composing indolent acrostics, in a style
　　Of gold, with languid sunshine dancing in each line.
　　
　　The solitary soul is heart-sick with a vile
　　Ennui. Down yon, they say, War's torches bloody shine.
　　Alas, to be so faint of will, one must resign
　　The chance of brave adventure in the splendid file,--
　　
　　Of death, perchance! Alas, so lagging in desire!
　　Ah, all is drunk! Bathyllus, hast done laughing, pray?
　　Ah, all is drunk,--all eaten! Nothing more to say!
　　
　　Alone, a vapid verse one tosses in the fire;
　　Alone, a somewhat thievish slave neglecting one;
　　Alone, a vague disgust of all beneath the sun!
　　
　　
　　
　　Naguère
　　
　　[Illustration: "Crépuscule du Soir Mystique."]
　　
　　
　　PROLOGUE
　　
　　Glimm'ring twilight things are these,
　　Visions of the end of night.
　　Truth, thou lightest them, I wis,
　　Only with a distant light,
　　
　　Whitening through the hated shade
　　In such grudging dim degrees,
　　One must doubt if they be made
　　By the moon among the trees,
　　
　　Or if these uncertain ghosts
　　Shall take body bye and bye,
　　And uniting with the hosts
　　Tented by the azure sky,
　　
　　Framed by Nature's setting meet,--
　　Offer up in one accord
　　From the heart's ecstatic heat,
　　Incense to the living Lord!
　　
　　
　　Parallèlement
　　
　　
　　IMPRESSION FAUSSE
　　
　　Dame mouse patters
　　Black against the shadow grey;
　　 Dame mouse patters
　　 Grey against the black.
　　
　　 Hear the bed-time bell!
　　Sleep forthwith, good prisoners;
　　 Hear the bed-time bell!
　　 You must go to sleep.
　　
　　 No disturbing dream!
　　Think of nothing but your loves:
　　 No disturbing dream,
　　 Of the fair ones think!
　　
　　 Moonlight clear and bright!
　　Some one of the neighbors snores;
　　 Moonlight clear and bright--
　　 He is troublesome.
　　
　　 Comes a pitchy cloud
　　Creeping o'er the faded moon;
　　 Comes a pitchy cloud--
　　 See the grey dawn creep!
　　
　　 Dame mouse patters
　　Pink across an azure ray;
　　 Dame mouse patters. . . .
　　 Sluggards, up! 'tis day!
　　
　　
　　Poèmes Saturniens
　　
　　
　　PROLOGUE
　　
　　The Sages of old time, well worth our own,
　　Believed--and it has been disproved by none--
　　That destinies in Heaven written are,
　　And every soul depends upon a star.
　　(Many have mocked, without remembering
　　That laughter oft is a misguiding thing,
　　This explanation of night's mystery.)
　　Now all that born beneath Saturnus be,--
　　Red planet, to the necromancer dear,--
　　Inherit, ancient magic-books make clear,
　　Good share of spleen, good share of wretchedness.
　　Imagination, wakeful, vigorless,
　　In them makes the resolves of reason vain.
　　The blood within them, subtle as a bane,
　　Burning as lava, scarce, flows ever fraught
　　With sad ideals that ever come to naught.
　　Such must Saturnians suffer, such must die,--
　　If so that death destruction doth imply,--
　　Their lives being ordered in this dismal sense
　　By logic of a malign Influence.
　　
　　
　　Melancholia
　　
　　
　　NEVERMORE
　　
　　Remembrance, what wilt thou with me? The year
　　Declined; in the still air the thrush piped clear,
　　The languid sunshine did incurious peer
　　Among the thinned leaves of the forest sere.
　　
　　We were alone, and pensively we strolled,
　　With straying locks and fancies, when, behold
　　Her turn to let her thrilling gaze enfold,
　　And ask me in her voice of living gold,
　　
　　Her fresh young voice, "What was thy happiest day?"
　　I smiled discreetly for all answer, and
　　Devotedly I kissed her fair white hand.
　　
　　--Ah, me! The earliest flowers, how sweet are they!
　　And in how exquisite a whisper slips
　　The earliest "Yes" from well-beloved lips!
　　
　　
　　
　　APRÈS TROIS ANS
　　
　　When I had pushed the narrow garden-door,
　　Once more I stood within the green retreat;
　　Softly the morning sunshine lighted it,
　　And every flow'r a humid spangle wore.
　　
　　Nothing is changed. I see it all once more:
　　The vine-clad arbor with its rustic seat. . . .
　　The waterjet still plashes silver sweet,
　　The ancient aspen rustles as of yore.
　　
　　The roses throb as in a bygone day,
　　As they were wont, the tall proud lilies sway.
　　Each bird that lights and twitters is a friend.
　　
　　I even found the Flora standing yet,
　　Whose plaster crumbles at the alley's end,
　　--Slim, 'mid the foolish scent of mignonette.
　　
　　
　　
　　MON RÊVE FAMILIER
　　
　　Oft do I dream this strange and penetrating dream:
　　An unknown woman, whom I love, who loves me well,
　　Who does not every time quite change, nor yet quite dwell
　　The same,--and loves me well, and knows me as I am.
　　
　　For she knows me! My heart, clear as a crystal beam
　　To her alone, ceases to be inscrutable
　　To her alone, and she alone knows to dispel
　　My grief, cooling my brow with her tears' gentle stream.
　　
　　Is she of favor dark or fair?--I do not know.
　　Her name? All I remember is that it doth flow
　　Softly, as do the names of them we loved and lost.
　　
　　Her eyes are like the statues',--mild and grave and wide;
　　And for her voice she has as if it were the ghost
　　Of other voices,--well-loved voices that have died.
　　
　　
　　
　　A UNE FEMME
　　
　　To you these lines for the consoling grace
　　Of your great eyes wherein a soft dream shines,
　　For your pure soul, all-kind!--to you these lines
　　From the black deeps of mine unmatched distress.
　　
　　'Tis that the hideous dream that doth oppress
　　My soul, alas! its sad prey ne'er resigns,
　　But like a pack of wolves down mad inclines
　　Goes gathering heat upon my reddened trace!
　　
　　I suffer, oh, I suffer cruelly!
　　So that the first man's cry at Eden lost
　　Was but an eclogue surely to my cry!
　　
　　And that the sorrows, Dear, that may have crossed
　　Your life, are but as swallows light that fly
　　--Dear!--in a golden warm September sky.
　　
　　
　　Paysages Tristes
　　
　　
　　CHANSON D'AUTOMNE
　　
　　Leaf-strewing gales
　　Utter low wails
　　 Like violins,--
　　Till on my soul
　　Their creeping dole
　　 Stealthily wins....
　　
　　Days long gone by!
　　In such hour, I,
　　 Choking and pale,
　　Call you to mind,--
　　Then like the wind
　　 Weep I and wail.
　　
　　And, as by wind
　　Harsh and unkind,
　　 Driven by grief,
　　Go I, here, there,
　　Recking not where,
　　 Like the dead leaf.
　　
　　
　　
　　LE ROSSIGNOL
　　
　　Like to a swarm of birds, with jarring cries
　　Descend on me my swarming memories;
　　Light mid the yellow leaves, that shake and sigh,
　　Of the bowed alder--that is even I!--
　　Brooding its shadow in the violet
　　Unprofitable river of Regret.
　　They settle screaming--Then the evil sound,
　　By the moist wind's impatient hushing drowned,
　　Dies by degrees, till nothing more is heard
　　Save the lone singing of a single bird,
　　Save the clear voice--O singer, sweetly done!--
　　Warbling the praises of the Absent One....
　　And in the silence of a summer night
　　Sultry and splendid, by a late moon's light
　　That sad and sallow peers above the hill,
　　The humid hushing wind that ranges still
　　Rocks to a whispered sleepsong languidly
　　The bird lamenting and the shivering tree.
　　
　　
　　
　　Caprices
　　
　　
　　IL BACIO
　　
　　Kiss! Hollyhock in Love's luxuriant close!
　　 Brisk music played on pearly little keys,
　　 In tempo with the witching melodies
　　Love in the ardent heart repeating goes.
　　
　　Sonorous, graceful Kiss, hail! Kiss divine!
　　 Unequalled boon, unutterable bliss!
　　 Man, bent o'er thine enthralling chalice, Kiss,
　　Grows drunken with a rapture only thine!
　　
　　Thou comfortest as music does, and wine,
　　 And grief dies smothered in thy purple fold.
　　 Let one greater than I, Kiss, and more bold,
　　Rear thee a classic, monumental line.
　　
　　Humble Parisian bard, this infantile
　　 Bouquet of rhymes I tender half in fear....
　　 Be gracious, and in guerdon, on the dear
　　Red lips of One I know, alight and smile!
　　
　　
　　ÉPILOGUE
　　
　　 I
　　The sun, less hot, looks from a sky more clear;
　　The roses in their sleepy loveliness
　　Nod to the cradling wind. The atmosphere
　　Enfolds us with a sister's tenderness.
　　
　　For once hath Nature left the splendid throne
　　Of her indifference, and through the mild
　　Sun-gilded air of Autumn, clement grown,
　　Descends to man, her proud, revolted child.
　　
　　She takes, to wipe the tears upon our face,
　　Her azure mantle sown with many a star;
　　And her eternal soul, her deathless grace,
　　Strengthen and calm the weak heart that we are.
　　
　　The waving of the boughs, the lengthened line
　　Of the horizon, full of dreamy hues
　　And scattered songs, all,--sing it, sail, or shine!--
　　To-day consoles, delivers!--Let us muse.
　　
　　
　　 II
　　So, then this book is closed. Dear Fancies mine,
　　That streaked my grey sky with your wings of light,
　　And passing fanned my burning brow, benign,--
　　Return, return to your blue Infinite!
　　
　　Thou, ringing Rhyme, thou, Verse that smooth didst glide,
　　Ye, throbbing Rhythms, ye, musical Refrains,
　　And Memories, and Dreams, and ye beside
　　Fair Figures called to life with anxious pains,
　　
　　We needs must part. Until the happier day
　　When Art, our Lord, his thralls shall re-unite,
　　Companions sweet, Farewell and Wellaway,
　　Fly home, ye may, to your blue Infinite!
　　
　　And true it is, we spared not breath or force,
　　And our good pleasure, like foaming steed
　　Blind with the madness of his earliest course,
　　Of rest within the quiet shade hath need.
　　
　　--For always have we held thee, Poesy,
　　To be our Goddess, mighty and august,
　　Our only passion,--Mother calling thee,
　　And holding Inspiration in mistrust.
　　
　　
　　
　　 III
　　Ah, Inspiration, splendid, dominant,
　　Egeria with the lightsome eyes profound,
　　Sudden Erato, Genius quick to grant,
　　Old picture Angel of the gilt background,
　　
　　Muse,--ay, whose voice is powerful indeed,
　　Since in the first come brain it makes to grow
　　Thick as some dusty yellow roadside weed,
　　A gardenful of poems none did sow,--
　　
　　Dove, Holy Ghost, Delirium, Sacred Fire,
　　Transporting Passion,--seasonable queen!--
　　Gabriel and lute, Latona's son and lyre,--
　　Ah, Inspiration, summoned at sixteen!
　　
　　What we have need of, we, the Poets True,
　　That not believe in Gods, and yet revere,
　　That have no halo, hold no golden clue,
　　For whom no Beatrix leaves her radiant sphere,
　　
　　We, that do chisel words like chalices,
　　And moving verses shape with unmoved mind,
　　Whom wandering in groups by evening seas,
　　In musical converse ye scarce shall find,--
　　
　　What we need is, in midnight hours dim-lit,
　　Sleep daunted, knowledge earned,--more knowledge still!
　　Is Faust's brow, of the wood-cuts, sternly knit,
　　Is stubborn Perseverance, and is Will!
　　
　　Is Will eternal, holy, absolute,
　　That grasps--as doth a noble bird of prey
　　The steaming flanks of the foredoomed brute,--
　　Its project, and with it,--skyward, away!
　　
　　What we need, we, is fixedness intense,
　　Unequalled effort, strife that shall not cease,
　　Is night, the bitter night of labor, whence
　　Arises, sun-like, slow, the Master-piece!
　　
　　Let our Inspired, hearts by an eye-shot tined,
　　Sway with the birch-tree to all winds that blow,
　　Poor things! Art knows not the divided mind--
　　Speak, Milo's Venus, is she stone or no?
　　
　　We therefore, carve we with the chisel Thought
　　The pure block of the Beautiful, and gain
　　From out the marble cold where it was not,
　　Some starry-chitoned statue without stain,
　　
　　That one far day, Posterity, new Morn,
　　Enkindling with a golden-rosy flame
　　Our Work, new Memnon, shall to ears unborn
　　Make quiver in the singing air our name!