Part 19

The flesh is sad, alas! and all the books are read. Flight, only flight! I feel that birds are wild to tread The floor of unknown foam, and to attain the skies! Nought, neither ancient gardens mirrored in the eyes, Shall hold this heart that bathes in waters its delight, O nights! nor yet my waking lamp, whose lonely light Shadows the vacant paper, whiteness profits best, Nor the young wife who rocks her baby on her breast. I will depart! O steamer, swaying rope and spar, Lift anchor for exotic lands that lie afar! A weariness, outworn by cruel hopes, still clings To the last farewell handkerchief's last beckonings! And are not these, the masts inviting storms, not these That an awakening wind bends over wrecking seas, Lost, not a sail, a sail, a flowering isle, ere long? But, O my heart, hear thou, hear thou the sailors' song!

IV. ANGUISH

To-night I do not come to conquer thee, O Beast that dost the sins of the whole world bear, Nor with my kisses' weary misery Wake a sad tempest in thy wanton hair; It is that heavy and that dreamless sleep I ask of the close curtains of thy bed, Which, after all thy treacheries, folds thee deep, Who knowest oblivion better than the dead. For Vice, that gnaws with keener tooth than Time, Brands me as thee, of barren conquest proud; But while thou guardest in thy breast of stone A heart that fears no fang of any crime, I wander palely, haunted by my shroud, Fearing to die if I but sleep alone.

_From Paul Verlaine: Fêtes Galantes_

I. CLAIR DE LUNE

Your soul is a sealed garden, and there go With masque and bergamasque fair companies Playing on lutes and dancing and as though Sad under their fantastic fripperies.

Though they in minor keys go carolling Of love the conqueror and of life the boon They seem to doubt the happiness they sing And the song melts into the light of the moon,

The sad light of the moon, so lovely fair That all the birds dream in the leafy shade And the slim fountains sob into the air Among the marble statues in the glade.

II. PANTOMIME

Pierrot, no sentimental swain, Washes a paté down again With furtive flagons, white and red.

Cassandre, with demure content, Greets with a tear of sentiment His nephew disinherited.

That blackguard of a Harlequin Pirouettes, and plots to win His Columbine that flits and flies.

Columbine dreams, and starts to find A sad heart sighing in the wind, And in her heart a voice that sighs.

III. SUR L'HERBE

The Abbé wanders.--Marquis, now Set straight your periwig, and speak! --This Cyprus wine is heavenly, how Much less, Camargo, than your cheek!

--My goddess ...--Do, mi, sol, la, si. --Abbé, such treason who'll forgive you? --May I die, ladies, if there be A star in heaven I will not give you!

--I'd be my lady's lapdog; then ... --Shepherdess, kiss your shepherd soon, Shepherd, come kiss ...--Well, gentlemen? --Do, mi, so.--Hey, good-night, good moon!

IV. L'ALLÉE

As in the age of shepherd king and queen, Painted and frail amid her nodding bows, Under the sombre branches and between The green and mossy garden-ways she goes, With little mincing airs one keeps to pet A darling and provoking perroquet. Her long-trained robe is blue, the fan she holds With fluent fingers girt with heavy rings, So vaguely hints of vague erotic things That her eye smiles, musing among its folds. --Blonde too, a tiny nose, a rosy mouth, Artful as that sly patch that makes more sly, In her divine unconscious pride of youth, The slightly simpering sparkle of the eye.

V. A LA PROMENADE

The sky so pale, and the trees, such frail things, Seem as if smiling on our bright array That flits so light and gay upon the way With indolent airs and fluttering as of wings.

The fountain wrinkles under a faint wind, And all the sifted sunlight falling through The lime-trees of the shadowy avenue Comes to us blue and shadowy-pale and thinned.

Faultlessly fickle, and yet fond enough, With fonds hearts not too tender to be free, We wander whispering deliciously, And every lover leads a lady-love,

Whose imperceptible and roguish hand Darts now and then a dainty tap, the lip Revenges on an extreme finger-tip, The tip of the left little finger, and,

The deed being so excessive and uncouth, A duly freezing look deals punishment, That in the instant of the act is blent With a shy pity pouting in the mouth.

VI. DANS LA GROTTE

Stay, let me die, since I am true, For my distress will not delay, And the Hyrcanian tigress ravening for prey Is as a little lamb to you.

Yes, here within, cruel Clymène, This steel which in how many wars How many a Cyrus slew, or Scipio, now prepares To end my life and end my pain.

But nay, what need of steel have I To haste my passage to the shades? Did not Love pierce my heart, beyond all mortal aids, With the first arrow of your eye?

VII. LES INGENUS

High heels and long skirts intercepting them, So that, according to the wind or way, An ankle peeped and vanished as in play; And well we loved the malice of the game.

Sometimes an insect with its jealous sting Some fair one's whiter neck disquieted, From which the gleams of sudden whiteness shed Met in our eyes a frolic welcoming.

The stealthy autumn evening faded out, And the fair creatures dreaming by our side Words of such subtle savour to us sighed That since that time our souls tremble and doubt.

VIII. CORTÈGE

A silver-vested monkey trips And pirouettes before the face Of one who twists a kerchief's lace Between her well-gloved finger-tips.

A little negro, a red elf, Carries her dropping train, and holds At arm's length all the heavy folds, Watching each fold displace itself.

The monkey never lets his eyes Wander from the fair woman's breast, White wonder that to be possessed Would call a god out of the skies.

Sometimes the little negro seems To lift his sumptuous burden up Higher than need be, in the hope Of seeing what all night he dreams.

She goes by corridor and stair, Still to the insolent appeals Of her familiar animals Indifferent or unaware.

IX. LES COQUILLAGES

Each shell incrusted in the grot Where we two loved each other well An aspect of its own has got.

The purple of a purple shell Is our souls' colour when they make Our burning heart's blood visible.

This pallid shell affects to take Thy languors, when thy love-tired eyes Rebuke me for my mockery's sake.

This counterfeits the harmonies Of thy pink ear, and this might be Thy plump short nape with rosy dyes.

But one, among these, troubled me.

X. EN PATINANT

We were the victims, you and I, Madame, of mutual self deceits; And that which set our brains awry May well have been the summer heats.

And the spring too, if I recall, Contributed to spoil our play, And yet its share, I think, was small In leading you and me astray.

For air in springtime is so fresh That rose-buds Love has surely meant To match the roses of the flesh Have odours almost innocent;

And even the lilies that outpour Their biting odours where the sun Is new in heaven, do but the more Enliven and enlighten one,

So stealthily the zephyr blows A mocking breath that renders back The heart's rest and the soul's repose And the flower's aphrodisiac,

And the five senses, peeping out, Take up their station at the feast, But, being by themselves, without Troubling the reason in the least.

That was the time of azure skies, (Madame, do you remember it?) And sonnets to my lady's eyes, And cautious kisses not too sweet.

Free from all passion's idle pother, Full of mere kindliness, how long, How well we liked not loved each other, Without one rapture or one wrong!

Ah, happy hours! But summer came: Farewell, fresh breezes of the spring! A wind of pleasure like a flame Leapt on our senses wondering.

Strange flowers, fair crimson-hearted flowers Poured their ripe odours over us, And evil voices of the hours Whispered above us in the boughs.

We yielded to it all, ah me! What vertigo of fools held fast Our senses in its ecstasy Until the heat of summer passed?

There were vain tears and vainer laughter, And hands indefinitely pressed, Moist sadnesses, and swoonings after, And what vague void within the breast?

But autumn came to our relief, Its light grown cold, its gusts grown rough, Came to remind us, sharp and brief, That we had wantoned long enough,

And led us quickly to recover The elegance demanded of Every quite irreproachable lover And every seemly lady-love.

Now it is winter, and, alas, Our backers tremble for their stake; Already other sledges pass And leave us toiling in their wake.

Put both your hands into your muff, Sit back, now, steady! off we go. Fanchon will tell us soon enough Whatever news there is to know.

XI. FANTOCHES

Scaramouche waves a threatening hand To Pulcinella, and they stand, Two shadows, black against the moon.

The old doctor of Bologna pries For simples with impassive eyes, And mutters o'er a magic rune.

The while his daughter, scarce half-dressed, Glides slyly 'neath the trees, in quest Of her bold pirate lover's sail;

Her pirate from the Spanish main, Whose passion thrills her in the pain Of the loud languorous nightingale.

XII. CYTHÈRE

By favourable breezes fanned, A trellised harbour is at hand To shield us from the summer airs;

The scent of roses, fainting sweet, Afloat upon the summer heat, Blends with the perfume that she wears.

True to the promise her eyes gave, She ventures all, and her mouth rains A dainty fever through my veins;

And, Love fulfilling all things, save Hunger, we 'scape, with sweets and ices, The folly of Love's sacrifices.

XIII. EN BATEAU

The shepherd's star with trembling glint Drops in black water; at the hint The pilot fumbles for his flint.

Now is the time or never, sirs. No hand that wanders wisely errs: I touch a hand, and is it hers?

The knightly Atys strikes the strings, And to the faithless Chloris flings A look that speaks of many things.

The abbé has absolved again Eglé, the viscount all in vain Has given his hasty heart the rein.

Meanwhile the moon is up and streams Upon the skiff that flies and seems To float upon a tide of dreams.

XIV. LE FAUNE

An aged faun of old red clay-Laughs from the grassy bowling-green, Foretelling doubtless some decay Of mortal moments so serene

That lead us lightly on our way (Love's piteous pilgrims have we been!) To this last hour that runs away Dancing to the tambourine.

XV. MANDOLINE

The singers of serenades Whisper their faded vows Unto fair listening maids Under the singing boughs.

Tircis, Aminte, are there, Clitandre has waited long, And Damis for many a fair Tyrant makes many a song.

Their short vests, silken and bright, Their long pale silken trains, Their elegance of delight, Twine soft blue silken chains.

And the mandolines and they, Faintlier breathing, swoon Into the rose and grey Ecstasy of the moon.

XVI. A CLYMÈNE

Mystical strains unheard, A song without a word, Dearest, because thine eyes, Pale as the skies,

Because thy voice, remote As the far clouds that float Veiling for me the whole Heaven of the soul,

Because the stately scent Of thy swan's whiteness, blent With the white lily's bloom Of thy perfume,

Ah! because thy dear love, The music breathed above By angels halo-crowned, Odour and sound,

Hath, in my subtle heart, With some mysterious art Transposed thy harmony, So let it be!

XVII. LETTRE

Far from your sight removed by thankless cares (The gods are witness when a lover swears) I languish and I die, Madame, as still My use is, which I punctually fulfil, And go, through heavy-hearted woes conveyed, Attended ever by your lovely shade, By day in thought, by night in dreams of hell, And day and night, Madame, adorable! So that at length my dwindling body lost In very soul, I too become a ghost, I too, and in the lamentable stress Of vain desires remembering happiness, Remembered kisses, now, alas, unfelt, My shadow shall into your shadow melt.

Meanwhile, dearest, your most obedient slave.

How does the sweet society behave, Thy cat, thy dog, thy parrot? and is she Still, as of old, the black-eyed Silvanie (I had loved black eyes if thine had not been blue) Who ogled me at moments, palsambleu!

Thy tender friend and thy sweet confidant? One dream there is, Madame, long wont to haunt This too impatient heart: to pour the earth And all its treasures (of how little worth!) Before your feet as tokens of a love Equal to the most famous flames that move The hearts of men to conquer all but death. Cleopatra was less loved, yes, on my faith, By Antony or Cæsar than you are, Madame, by me, who truly would by far Out-do the deeds of Cæsar for a smile, O Cleopatra, queen of word and wile, Or, for a kiss, take flight with Antony

With this, farewell, dear, and no more from me; How can the time it takes to read it, quite Be worth the trouble that it took to write?

XVIII. LES INDOLENTS

Bah! spite of Fate, that says us nay, Suppose we die together, eh? --A rare conclusion you discover

--What's rare is good. Let us die so, Like lovers in Boccaccio. --Ha! ha! ha! you fantastic lover!

--Nay, not fantastic. If you will, Fond, surely irreproachable. Suppose, then, that we die together?

--Good sir, your jests are fitlier told Than when you speak of love or gold. Why speak at all, in this glad weather?

Whereat, behold them once again, Tircis beside his Dorimène, Not far from two blithe rustic rovers,

For some caprice of idle breath Deferring a delicious death. Ha! ha! ha! what fantastic lovers!

XIX. COLUMBINE

The foolish Leander, Cape-covered Cassander, And which Is Pierrot? 'tis he With the hop of a flea Leaps the ditch;

And Harlequin who Rehearses anew His sly task, With his dress that's a wonder, And eyes shining under His mask;

Mi, sol, mi, fa, do! How gaily they go, And they sing And they laugh and they twirl Round the feet of a girl Like the Spring,

Whose eyes are as green As a cat's are, and keen As its claws, And her eyes without frown Bid all new-comers Down With your paws!

On they go with the force Of the stars in their course, And the speed: O tell me toward what Disaster unthought, Without heed

The implacable fair, A rose in her hair, Holding up Her skirts as she runs Leads this dance of the dunce And the dupe?

XX. L'AMOUR PAR TERRE

The other night a sudden wind laid low The Love, shooting an arrow at a mark, In the mysterious corner of the park, Whose smile disquieted us long ago.

The wind has overthrown him, and above His scattered dust, how sad it is to spell The artist's name still faintly visible Upon the pedestal without its Love,

How sad it is to see the pedestal Still standing! as in dream I seem to hear Prophetic voices whisper in my ear The lonely and despairing end of all.

How sad it is! Why, even you have found A tear for it, although your frivolous eye Laughs at the gold and purple butterfly Poised on the piteous litter on the ground.

XXI. EN SOURDINE

Calm where twilight leaves have stilled With their shadow light and sound, Let our silent love be filled With a silence as profound.

Let our ravished senses blend Heart and spirit, thine and mine, With vague languors that descend From the branches of the pine.

Close thine eyes against the day, Fold thine arms across thy breast, And for ever turn away All desire of all but rest.

Let the lulling breaths that pass In soft wrinkles at thy feet, Tossing all the tawny grass, This and only this repeat.

And when solemn evening Dims the forest's dusky air, Then the nightingale shall sing The delight of our despair.

XXII. COLLOQUE SENTIMENTAL

In the old park, solitary and vast, Over the frozen ground two forms once passed.

Their lips were languid and their eyes were dead, And hardly could be heard the words they said.

In the old park, solitary and vast, Two ghosts once met to summon up the past.

--Do you remember our old ecstasy? --Why would you bring it back again to me?

--Do you still dream as you dreamed long ago? Does your heart beat to my heart's beating? --No.

--Ah, those old days, what joys have those days seen When your lips met my lips!--It may have been.

--How blue the sky was, and our hope how light! --Hope has flown helpless back into the night.

They walked through weeds withered and grasses dead, And only the night heard the words they said.

_From Poèmes Saturniens_

I. SOLEILS COUCHANTS

Pale dawn delicately Over earth has spun The sad melancholy Of the setting sun. Sad melancholy Brings oblivion In sad songs to me With the setting sun. And the strangest dreams, Dreams like suns that set On the banks of the streams, Ghost and glory met, To my sense it seems, Pass, and without let, Like great suns that set On the banks of streams.

II. CHANSON D'AUTOMNE

When a sighing begins In the violins Of the autumn-song, My heart is drowned In the slow sound Languorous and long.

Pale as with pain, Breath fails me when The hour tolls deep. My thoughts recover The days that are over, And I weep.

And I go

Where the winds know, Broken and brief, To and fro, As the winds blow A dead leaf.

III. FEMME ET CHATTE

They were at play, she and her cat, And it was marvellous to mark The white paw and the white hand pat Each other in the deepening dark.

The stealthy little lady hid Under her mittens' silken sheath Her deadly agate nails that thrid The silk-like dagger-points of death.

The cat purred primly and drew in Her claws that were of steel filed thin: The devil was in it all the same.

And in the boudoir, while a shout Of laughter in the air rang out, Four sparks of phosphor shone like flame.

_From La Bonne Chanson_

I

The white moon sits And seems to brood Where a swift voice flits From each branch in the wood That the tree-tops cover....

O lover, my lover!

The pool in the meadows Like a looking-glass Casts back the shadows That over it pass Of the willow-bower....

Let us dream: 'tis the hour....

A tender and vast Lull of content Like a cloud is cast From the firmament Where one planet is bright....

'Tis the hour of delight.

II

The fireside, the lamp's little narrow light; The dream with head on hand, and the delight Of eyes that lose themselves in loving looks; The hour of steaming tea and of shut books; The solace to know evening almost gone; The dainty weariness of waiting on The nuptial shadow and night's softest bliss; Ah, it is this that without respite, this That without stay, my tender fancy seeks, Mad with the months and furious with the weeks.

_From Romances sans Paroles_

I

'Tis the ecstasy of repose, 'Tis love when tired lids close, 'Tis the wood's long shuddering In the embrace of the wind, 'Tis, where grey boughs are thinned, Little voices that sing.

O fresh and frail is the sound That twitters above, around, Like the sweet tiny sigh That lies in the shaken grass; Or the sound when waters pass And the pebbles shrink and cry.

What soul is this that complains Over the sleeping plains, And what is it that it saith? Is it mine, is it thine, This lowly hymn I divine In the warm night, low as a breath?

II

I divine, through the veil of a murmuring, The subtle contour of voices gone, And I see, in the glimmering lights that sing, The promise, pale love, of a future dawn.

And my soul and my heart in trouble What are they but an eye that sees, As through a mist an eye sees double, Airs forgotten of songs like these?

O to die of no other dying, Love, than this that computes the showers Of old hours and of new hours flying: O to die of the swing of the hours!

III

Tears in my heart that weeps, Like the rain upon the town. What drowsy languor steeps In tears my heart that weeps?

O sweet sound of the rain On earth and on the roofs! For a heart's weary pain O the song of the rain!

Vain tears, vain tears, my heart! What, none hath done thee wrong? Tears without reason start From my disheartened heart.

This is the weariest woe, O heart, of love and hate Too weary, not to know Why thou hast all this woe.

IV

A frail hand in the rose-grey evening Kisses the shining keys that hardly stir, While, with the light, small flutter of a wing, And old song, like an old tired wanderer, Goes very softly, as if trembling, About the room long redolent of Her.

What lullaby is this that comes again To dandle my poor being with its breath? What wouldst thou have of me, gay laughing strain? What hadst thou, desultory faint refrain That now into the garden to thy death Floatest through the half-opened window-pane?

V

O sad, sad was my soul, alas! For a woman, a woman's sake it was.

I have had no comfort since that day, Although my heart went its way,

Although my heart and my soul went From the woman into banishment.

I have had no comfort since that day, Although my heart went its way.

And my heart, being sore in me, Said to my soul: How can this be,

How can this be or have been thus, This proud, sad banishment of us?

My soul said to my heart: Do I Know what snare we are tangled by,

Seeing that, banished, we know not whether We are divided or together?

VI

Wearily the plain's Endless length expands; The snow shines like grains Of the shifting sands.

Light of day is none, Brazen is the sky; Overhead the moon Seems to live and die.

Where the woods are seen, Grey the oak-trees lift Through the vaporous screen Like the clouds that drift.

Light of day is none, Brazen is the sky; Overhead the moon Seems to live and die.

Broken-winded crow, And you, lean wolves, when The sharp north-winds blow, What do you do then?

Wearily the plain's Endless length expands; The snow shines like grains Of the shifting sands.

VII

There's a flight of green and red In the hurry of hills and rails, Through the shadowy twilight shed By the lamps as daylight pales.

Dim gold light flushes to blood In humble hollows far down; Birds sing low from a wood Of barren trees without crown.

Scarcely more to be felt Than that autumn is gone; Languors, lulled in me, melt In the still air's monotone.

VIII. SPLEEN

The roses were all red, The ivy was all black: Dear, if you turn your head, All my despairs come back.