Part 12

Deep in the tortuous folds of ancient towns, Where all, even horror, to enchantment turns, I watch, obedient to my fatal mood, For the decrepit, strange and charming beings, The dislocated monsters that of old Were lovely women--Lais or Eponine! Hunchbacked and broken, crooked though they be, Let us still love them, for they still have souls. They creep along wrapped in their chilly rags, Beneath the whipping of the wicked wind, They tremble when an omnibus rolls by, And at their sides, a relic of the past, A little flower-embroidered satchel hangs. They trot about, most like to marionettes; They drag themselves, as does a wounded beast; Or dance unwillingly as a clapping bell Where hangs and swings a demon without pity. Though they be broken they have piercing eyes, That shine like pools where water sleeps at night; The astonished and divine eyes of a child who laughs at all that glitters in the world. Have you not seen that most old women's shrouds Are little like the shroud of a dead child? Wise Death, in token of his happy whim, Wraps old and young in one enfolding sheet. And when I see a phantom, frail and wan, Traverse the swarming picture that is Paris, It ever seems as though the delicate thing Trod with soft steps towards a cradle new. And then I wonder, seeing the twisted form, How many times must workmen change the shape Of boxes where at length such limbs are laid? These eyes are wells brimmed with a million tears; Crucibles where the cooling metal pales-- Mysterious eyes that are strong charms to him Whose life-long nurse has been austere Disaster.

II

The love-sick vestal of the old "Frasciti"; Priestess of Thalia, alas! whose name Only the prompter knows and he is dead; Bygone celebrities that in bygone days The Tivoli o'ershadowed in their bloom; All charm me; yet among these beings frail Three, turning pain to honey-sweetness, said To the Devotion that had lent them wings: "Lift me, O powerful Hippogriffe, to the skies"-- One by her country to despair was driven; One by her husband overwhelmed with grief; One wounded by her child, Madonna-like; Each could have made a river with her tears.

III

Oft have I followed one of these old women, One among others, when the falling sun Reddened the heavens with a crimson wound-- Pensive, apart, she rested on a bench To hear the brazen music of the band, Played by the soldiers in the public park To pour some courage into citizens' hearts, On golden eves when all the world revives. Proud and erect she drank the music in, The lively and the warlike call to arms; Her eyes blinked like an ancient eagle's eyes; Her forehead seemed to await the laurel crown!

IV

Thus you do wander, uncomplaining Stoics, Through all the chaos of the living town: Mothers with bleeding hearts, saints, courtesans, Whose names of yore were on the lips of all; Who were all glory and all grace, and now None know you; and the brutish drunkard stops, Insulting you with his derisive love; And cowardly urchins call behind your back. Ashamed of living, withered shadows all, With fear-bowed backs you creep beside the walls, And none salute you, destined to loneliness! Refuse of Time ripe for Eternity! But I, who watch you tenderly afar, With unquiet eyes on your uncertain steps, As though I were your father, I--O wonder!-- Unknown to you taste secret, hidden joy. I see your maiden passions bud and bloom, Sombre or luminous, and your lost days Unroll before me while my heart enjoys All your old vices, and my soul expands To all the virtues that have once been yours. Ruined! and my sisters! O congenerate hearts, Octogenarian Eves o'er whom is stretched God's awful claw, where will you be to-morrow?

A MADRIGAL OF SORROW

What do I care though you be wise? Be sad, be beautiful; your tears But add one more charm to your eyes, As streams to valleys where they rise; And fairer every flower appears

After the storm. I love you most When joy has fled your brow downcast; When your heart is in horror lost, And o'er your present like a ghost Floats the dark shadow of the past.

I love you when the teardrop flows, Hotter than blood, from your large eye; When I would hush you to repose Your heavy pain breaks forth and grows Into a loud and tortured cry.

And then, voluptuousness divine! Delicious ritual and profound! I drink in every sob like wine, And dream that in your deep heart shine The pearls wherein your eyes were drowned.

I know your heart, which overflows With outworn loves long cast aside, Still like a furnace flames and glows, And you within your breast enclose A damnèd soul's unbending pride;

But till your dreams without release Reflect the leaping flames of hell; Till in a nightmare without cease You dream of poison to bring peace, And love cold steel and powder well;

And tremble at each opened door, And feel for every man distrust, And shudder at the striking hour-- Till then you have not felt the power Of Irresistible Disgust.

My queen, my slave, whose love is fear, When you awaken shuddering, Until that awful hour be here, You cannot say at midnight drear: "I am your equal, O my King!"

MIST AND RAIN

Autumns and winters, springs of mire and rain, Seasons of sleep, I sing your praises loud, For thus I love to wrap my heart and brain In some dim tomb beneath a vapoury shroud

In the wide plain where revels the cold wind, Through long nights when the weathercock whirls round, More free than in warm summer day my mind Lifts wide her raven pinions from the ground.

Unto a heart filled with funereal things That since old days hoar frosts have gathered on, Naught is more sweet, O pallid, queenly springs,

Than the long pageant of your shadows wan, Unless it be on moonless eves to weep On some chance bed and rock our griefs to sleep.

SUNSET

Fair is the sun when first he flames above, Flinging his joy down in a happy beam; And happy he who can salute with love The sunset far more glorious than a dream.

Flower, stream, and furrow!--I have seen them all In the sun's eye swoon like one trembling heart-- Though it be late let us with speed depart To catch at least one last ray ere it fall!

But I pursue the fading god in vain, For conquering Night makes firm her dark domain, Mist and gloom fall, and terrors glide between,

And graveyard odours in the shadow swim, And my faint footsteps on the marsh's rim, Bruise the cold snail and crawling toad unseen.

THE CORPSE

Remember, my Beloved, what thing we met By the roadside on that sweet summer day; There on a grassy couch with pebbles set, A loathsome body lay.

The wanton limbs stiff-stretched into the air, Steaming with exhalations vile and dank, In ruthless cynic fashion had laid bare The swollen side and flank.

On this decay the sun shone hot from heaven As though with chemic heat to broil and bum, And unto Nature all that she had given A hundredfold return.

The sky smiled down upon the horror there As on a flower that opens to the day; So awful an infection smote the air, Almost you swooned away.

The swarming flies hummed on the putrid side, Whence poured the maggots in a darkling stream, That ran along these tatters of life's pride With a liquescent gleam.

And like a wave the maggots rose and fell, The murmuring flies swirled round in busy strife: It seemed as though a vague breath came to swell And multiply with life

The hideous corpse. From all this living world A music as of wind and water ran, Or as of grain in rhythmic motion swirled By the swift winnower's fan.

And then the vague forms like a dream died out, Or like some distant scene that slowly falls Upon the artist's canvas, that with doubt He only half recalls.

A homeless dog behind the boulders lay And watched us both with angry eyes forlorn, Waiting a chance to come and take away The morsel she had torn.

And you, even you, will be like this drear thing, A vile infection man may not endure; Star that I yearn to! Sun that lights my spring! O passionate and pure!

Yes, such will you be, Queen of every grace! When the last sacramental words are said; And beneath grass and flowers that lovely face Moulders among the dead.

Then, O Belovèd, whisper to the worm That crawls up to devour you with a kiss, That I still guard in memory the dear form Of love that comes to this!

AN ALLEGORY

Here is a woman, richly clad and fair, Who in her wine dips her long, heavy hair; Love's claws, and that sharp poison which is sin, Are dulled against the granite of her skin. Death she defies, Debauch she smiles upon, For their sharp scythe-like talons every one Pass by her in their all-destructive play; Leaving her beauty till a later day. Goddess she walks; sultana in her leisure; She has Mohammed's faith that heaven is pleasure, And bids all men forget the world's alarms Upon her breast, between her open arms. She knows, and she believes, this sterile maid, Without whom the world's onward dream would fade, That bodily beauty is the supreme gift Which may from every sin the terror lift. Hell she ignores, and Purgatory defies; And when black Night shall roll before her eyes, She will look straight in Death's grim face forlorn, Without remorse or hate--as one new-born.

THE ACCURSED

Like pensive herds at rest upon the sands, These to the sea-horizons turn their eyes; Out of their folded feet and clinging hands Bitter sharp tremblings and soft languors rise.

Some tread the thicket by the babbling stream, Their hearts with untold secrets ill at ease; Calling the lover of their childhood's dream, They wound the green bark of the shooting trees.

Others like sisters wander, grave and slow, Among the rocks haunted by spectres thin, Where Antony saw as larvæ surge and flow The veined bare breasts that tempted him to sin.

Some, when the resinous torch of burning wood Flares in lost pagan caverns dark and deep, Call thee to quench the fever in their blood, Bacchus, who singest old remorse to sleep!

Then there are those the scapular bedights, Whose long white vestments hide the whip's red stain, Who mix, in sombre woods on lonely nights, The foam of pleasure with the tears of pain.

O virgins, demons, monsters, martyrs! ye Who scorn whatever actual appears; Saints, satyrs, seekers of Infinity, So full of cries, so full of bitter tears;

Ye whom my soul has followed into hell, I love and pity, O sad sisters mine, Your thirsts unquenched, your pains no tongue can tell, And your great hearts, those urns of love divine!

LA BEATRICE

In a burnt, ashen land, where no herb grew, I to the winds my cries of anguish threw; And in my thoughts, in that sad place apart, Pricked gently with the poignard o'er my heart. Then in full noon above my head a cloud Descended tempest-swollen, and a crowd Of wild, lascivious spirits huddled there, The cruel and curious demons of the air, Who coldly to consider me began; Then, as a crowd jeers some unhappy man, Exchanging gestures, winking with their eyes-- I heard a laughing and a whispering rise:

"Let us at leisure contemplate this clown, This shadow of Hamlet aping Hamlet's frown, With wandering eyes and hair upon the wind. Is't not a pity that this empty mind, This tramp, this actor out of work, this droll, Because he knows how to assume a rôle Should dream that eagles and insects, streams and woods, Stand still to hear him chaunt his dolorous moods? Even unto us, who made these ancient things, The fool his public lamentation sings." With pride as lofty as the towering cloud, I would have stilled these clamouring demons loud, And turned in scorn my sovereign head away Had I not seen--O sight to dim the day!-- There in the middle of the troupe obscene The proud and peerless beauty of my Queen! She laughed with them at all my dark distress, And gave to each in turn a vile caress.

THE SOUL OF WINE.

One eve in the bottle sang the soul of wine: "Man, unto thee, dear disinherited, I sing a song of love and light divine-- Prisoned in glass beneath my seals of red.

"I know thou labourest on the hill of fire, In sweat and pain beneath a flaming sun, To give the life and soul my vines desire, And I am grateful for thy labours done.

"For I find joys unnumbered when I lave The throat of man by travail long outworn, And his hot bosom is a sweeter grave Of sounder sleep than my cold caves forlorn.

"Hearest thou not the echoing Sabbath sound? The hope that whispers in my trembling breast? Thy elbows on the table! gaze around; Glorify me with joy and be at rest.

"To thy wife's eyes I'll bring their long-lost gleam, I'll bring back to thy child his strength and light, To him, life's fragile athlete I will seem Rare oil that firms his muscles for the fight.

"I flow in man's heart as ambrosia flows; The grain the eternal Sower casts in the sod-- From our first loves the first fair verse arose, Flower-like aspiring to the heavens and God!"

THE WINE OF LOVERS

Space rolls to-day her splendour round! Unbridled, spurless, without bound, Mount we upon the wings of wine For skies fantastic and divine!

Let us, like angels tortured by Some wild delirious phantasy, Follow the far-off mirage born In the blue crystal of the morn.

And gently balanced on the wing Of the wild whirlwind we will, ride, Rejoicing with the joyous thing.

My sister, floating side by side, Fly we unceasing whither gleams The distant heaven of my dreams.

THE DEATH OF LOVERS

There shall be couches whence faint odours rise, Divans like sepulchres, deep and profound; Strange flowers that bloomed beneath diviner skies The death-bed of our love shall breathe around.

And guarding their last embers till the end, Our hearts shall be the torches of the shrine, And their two leaping flames shall fade and blend In the twin mirrors of your soul and mine.

And through the eve of rose and mystic blue A beam of love shall pass from me to you, Like a long sigh charged with a last farewell;

And later still an angel, flinging wide The gates, shall bring to life with joyful spell The tarnished mirrors and the flames that died.

THE DEATH OF THE POOR

Death is consoler and Death brings to life; The end of all, the solitary hope; We, drunk with Death's elixir, face the strife, Take heart, and mount till eve the weary slope.

Across the storm, the hoar-frost, and the snow, Death on our dark horizon pulses clear; Death is the famous hostel we all know, Where we may rest and sleep and have good cheer.

Death is an angel whose magnetic palms Bring dreams of ecstasy and slumberous calms To smooth the beds of naked men and poor.

Death is the mystic granary of God; The poor man's purse; his fatherland of yore; The Gate that opens into heavens untrod!

GYPSIES TRAVELLING

The tribe prophetic with the eyes of fire Went forth last night; their little ones at rest Each on his mother's back, with his desire Set on the ready treasure of her breast.

Laden with shining arms the men-folk tread By the long wagons where their goods lie hidden; They watch the heaven with eyes grown weariëd Of hopeless dreams that come to them unbidden.

The grasshopper, from out his sandy screen, Watching them pass redoubles his shrill song; Dian, who loves them, makes the grass more green,

And makes the rock run water for this throng Of ever-wandering ones Whose calm eyes see Familiar realms of darkness yet to be.

FRANCISCÆ MEÆ LAUDES

Novis te cantabo chordis, O novelletum quod ludis In solitudine cordis.

Esto sertis implicata, O fœmina delicata Per quam solvuntur peccata

Sicut beneficum Lethe, Hauriam oscula de te, Quæ imbuta es magnete.

Quum vitiorum tempestas Turbabat omnes semitas, Apparuisti, Deitas,

Velut stella salutaris In naufragiis amaris.... Suspendam cor tuis aris!

Piscina plena virtutis, Fons æternæ juventutis, Labris vocem redde mutis!

Quod erat spurcum, cremasti; Quod rudius, exæquasti; Quod debile, confirmasti!

In fame mea tabema, In nocte mea lucerna, Recte me semper gubema.

Adde nunc vires viribus, Dulce balneum suavibus, Unguentatum odoribus!

Meos circa lumbos mica, O castitatis lorica, Aqua tincta seraphica;

Patera gemmis corusca, Panis salsus, mollis esca, Divinum vinum, Francisca!

A LANDSCAPE

I would, when I compose my solemn verse, Sleep near the heaven as do astrologers, Near the high bells, and with a dreaming mind Hear their calm hymns blown to me on the wind.

Out of my tower, with chin upon my hands, I'll watch the singing, babbling human bands; And see clock-towers like spars against the sky, And heavens that bring thoughts of eternity;

And softly, through the mist, will watch the birth Of stars in heaven and lamplight on the earth; The threads of smoke that rise above the town; The moon that pours her pale enchantment down.

Seasons will pass till Autumn fades the rose; And when comes Winter with his weary snows, I'll shut the doors and window-casements tight, And build my faery palace in the night.

Then I will dream of blue horizons deep; Of gardens where the marble fountains weep; Of kisses, and of ever-singing birds-- A sinless Idyll built of innocent words.

And Trouble, knocking at my window-pane And at my closet door, shall knock in vain; I will not heed him with his stealthy tread, Nor from my reverie uplift my head;

For I will plunge deep in the pleasure still Of summoning the spring-time with my will, Drawing the sun out of my heart, and there With burning thoughts making a summer air.

THE VOYAGE

I

The world is equal to the child's desire Who plays with pictures by his nursery fire-- How vast the world by lamplight seems! How small When memory's eyes look back, remembering all!--

One morning we set forth with thoughts aflame, Or heart o'erladen with desire or shame; And cradle, to the song of surge and breeze, Our own infinity on the finite seas.

Some flee the memory of their childhood's home; And others flee their fatherland; and some, Star-gazers drowned within a woman's eyes, Flee from the tyrant Circe's witcheries;

And, lest they still be changed to beasts, take flight For the embrasured heavens, and space, and light, Till one by one the stains her kisses made In biting cold and burning sunlight fade.

But the true voyagers are they who part From all they love because a wandering heart Drives them to fly the Fate they cannot fly; Whose call is ever "On!"--they know not why.

Their thoughts are like the clouds that veil a star They dream of change as warriors dream of war; And strange wild wishes never twice the same: Desires no mortal man can give a name.

II

We are like whirling tops and rolling balls-- For even when the sleepy night-time falls, Old Curiosity still thrusts us on, Like the cruel Angel who goads forth the sun.

The end of fate fades ever through the air, And, being nowhere, may be anywhere Where a man runs, hope waking in his breast, For ever like a madman, seeking rest.

Our souls are wandering ships outweariëd; And one upon the bridge asks: "What's ahead?" The topman's voice with an exultant sound Cries: "Love and Glory!"--then we run aground.

Each isle the pilot signals when 'tis late, Is El Dorado, promised us by fate-- Imagination, spite of her belief, Finds, in the light of dawn, a barren reef.

Oh the poor seeker after lands that flee! Shall we not bind and cast into the sea This drunken sailor whose ecstatic mood Makes bitterer still the water's weary flood?

Such is an old tramp wandering in the mire, Dreaming the paradise of his own desire, Discovering cities of enchanted sleep Where'er the light shines on a rubbish heap.

III

Strange voyagers, what tales of noble deeds Deep in your dim sea-weary eyes one reads! Open the casket where your memories are, And show each jewel, fashioned from a star;

For I would travel without sail or wind, And so, to lift the sorrow from my mind, Let your long memories of sea-days far fled Pass o'er my spirit like a sail outspread.

What have you seen?

IV

"We have seen waves and stars, And lost sea-beaches, and known many wars, And notwithstanding war and hope and fear, We were as weary there as we are here.

"The lights that on the violet sea poured down, The suns that set behind some far-off town, Lit in our hearts the unquiet wish to fly Deep in the glimmering distance of the sky;

"The loveliest countries that rich cities bless, Never contained the strange wild loveliness By fate and chance shaped from the floating cloud-- And we were always sorrowful and proud!

"Desire from joy gains strength in weightier measure. Desire, old tree who draw'st thy sap from pleasure, Though thy bark thickens as the years pass by, Thine arduous branches rise towards the sky;

"And wilt thou still grow taller, tree more fair Than the tall cypress? --Thus have we, with care, "Gathered some flowers to please your eager mood, Brothers who dream that distant things are good!

"We have seen many a jewel-glimmering throne; And bowed to Idols when wild horns were blown In palaces whose faery pomp and gleam To your rich men would be a ruinous dream;

"And robes that were a madness to the eyes; Women whose teeth and nails were stained with dyes; Wise jugglers round whose neck the serpent winds----"

V

And then, and then what more?

VI

"O childish minds!

"Forget not that which we found everywhere, From top to bottom of the fatal stair, Above, beneath, around us and within, The weary pageant of immortal sin.

"We have seen woman, stupid slave and proud, Before her own frail, foolish beauty bowed; And man, a greedy, cruel, lascivious fool, Slave of the slave, a ripple in a pool;

"The martyrs groan, the headsman's merry mood; And banquets seasoned and perfumed with blood; Poison, that gives the tyrant's power the slip; And nations amorous of the brutal whip;

"Many religions not unlike our own, All in full flight for heaven's resplendent throne; And Sanctity, seeking delight in pain, Like a sick man of his own sickness vain;

"And mad mortality, drunk with its own power, As foolish now as in a bygone hour, Shouting, in presence of the tortured Christ: 'I curse thee, mine own Image sacrificed.'

"And silly monks in love with Lunacy, Fleeing the troops herded by destiny, Who seek for peace in opiate slumber furled-- Such is the pageant of the rolling world!"

VII

O bitter knowledge that the wanderers gain! The world says our own age is little and vain; For ever, yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, 'Tis horror's oasis in the sands of sorrow.

Must we depart? If you can rest, remain; Part, if you must. Some fly, some cower in vain, Hoping that Time, the grim and eager foe, Will pass them by; and some run to and fro