Flowers of Evil | Page 4

a cavernous den and a damp oubliette.
When the tomb-stone, oppressing thy timorous breast,
And thy hips
drooping sweetly with listless decay,
The pulse and desires of mine
heart shall arrest,
And thy feet from pursuing their adventurous way,

Then the grave, that dark friend of my limitless dreams
(For the grave
ever readeth the poet aright),
Amid those long nights, which no
slumber redeems
'Twill query " What use to thee, incomplete spright
That thou ne'er
hast unfathomed the tears of the dead"?
Then the worms will gnaw
deep at thy body, like Dread.
The Balcony
Oh, Mother of Memories! Mistress of Mistresses!
Oh, thou all my
pleasures, oh, thou all my prayers!
Can'st thou remember those
luscious caresses,
The charm of the hearth and the sweet evening airs?

Oh, Mother of Memories, Mistress of Mistresses!
Those evenings illumed by the glow of the coal,
And those roseate
nights with their vaporous wings,
How calm was thy breast and how
good was thy soul,
'Twas then we uttered imperishable things,

Those evenings illumed by the glow of the coal.
How lovely the suns on those hot, autumn nights!
How vast were the
heavens! and the heart how hale!
As I leaned towards you oh, my
Queen of Delights,
The scent of thy blood I seemed to inhale.
How
lovely the sun on those hot, autumn nights!
The shadows of night-time grew dense like a pall,
And deep through
the darkness thine eyes I divined,
And I drank of thy breath oh
sweetness, oh gall,
And thy feet in my brotherly hands reclined,

The shadows of Night-time grew dense like a pall.
I know how to call forth those moments so dear,
And to live my Past
laid on thy knees once more,
For where should I seek for thy beauties
but here
In thy langorous heart and thy body so pure?
I know how
to call forth those moments so dear.

Those perfumes, those infinite kisses and sighs,
Are they born in
some gulf to our plummets denied?
Like rejuvenate suns that mount
up to the skies,
That first have been cleansed in the depths of the tide;

Oh, perfumes! oh, infinite kisses and sighs!
The Possessed One
The sun is enveloped in crape! like it,
Moon of my Life! wrap thyself up in shade;
At will, smoke or
slumber, be silent, be staid,
And dive deep down in Dispassion's dark
pit.
I cherish thee thus! But if 'tis thy mood,
Like a star that from out its
penumbra appears,
To float in the regions where madness careers,
Fair dagger! burst forth from thy sheath! 'tis good.
Yea, light up thine eyes at the Fire of Renown!
Or kindle desire by
the looks of some clown!
Thine All is my joy, whether dull or
aflame!
Just be what thou wilt, black night, dawn divine,
There is not a nerve
in my trembling frame
But cries, "I adore thee, Beelzebub mine!"
Semper Eadem
"From whence it comes, you ask, this gloom acute,
Like waves that
o'er the rocky headland fall?"
When once our hearts have gathered in
their fruit,
To live is a curse! a secret known to all,
A grief, quite simple, nought mysterious,
And like your joy for all,
both loud and shrill,
Nay cease to clammour, be not e'er so curious!

And yet although your voice is sweet, be still!
Be still, O soul, with rapture ever rife!
O mouth, with the childish

smile! Far more than Life,
The subtle bonds of Death around us
twine.
Let let my heart, the wine of falsehood drink,
And dream-like, deep
within your fair eyes sink,
And in the shade of thy lashes long
recline!
All Entire
The Demon, in my lofty vault,
This morning came to visit me,
And
striving me to find at fault,
He said, " Fain would I know of thee;
"Among the many beauteous things,
All which her subtle grace
proclaim
Among the dark and rosy things,
Which go to make her
charming frame,
"Which is the sweetest unto thee"?
My soul! to Him thou didst retort

"Since all with her is destiny,
Of preference there can be nought.
When all transports me with delight,
If aught deludes I can not know,

She either lulls one like the Night,
Or dazzles like the
Morning-glow.
That harmony is too divine,
Which governs all her body fair,
For
powerless mortals to define
In notes the many concords there.
O mystic metamorphosis
Of all my senses blent in one!
Her voice a
beauteous perfume is,
Her breath makes music, chaste and wan.
Sonnet XLIII
What sayest thou, to-night, poor soul so drear,
What sayest heart
erewhile engulfed in gloom,
To the very lovely, very chaste, and very
dear,
Whose god-like look hath made thee to re-bloom?
To her, with pride we chant an echoing Hymn,
For nought can touch

the sweetness of her sway;
Her flesh ethereal as the seraphim,
Her
eyes with robe of light our souls array.
And be it in the night, or solitude,
Among the streets or 'mid the
multitude,
Her shadow, torch-like, dances in the air,
And murmurs, "I, the Beautiful proclaim
That for my sake, alone ye
love the Fair;
I am the Guardian Angel, Muse and Dame!"
The Living Torch
They stand