Forty-Two Poems | Page 6

man of mud,
Translated it correctly.
And when they heard that happy word,
Policemen leapt and ambled:?The busmen pranced, the maidens danced,
The men in bowlers gambolled.
A wistful Echo stayed behind
To join the mortal dances,?But Mr Judd, with words unkind,
Rejected her advances.
And passing down through London Town
She stopped, for all was lonely,?Attracted by a big brass plate
Inscribed, FOR MEMBERS ONLY.
And so she went to Parliament,
But those ungainly men?Woke up from sleep, and turned about,
And fell asleep again.
LITANY TO SATAN (from Baudelaire.)
O grandest of the Angels, and most wise,?O fallen God, fate-driven from the skies,?Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
O first of exiles who endurest wrong,?Yet growest, in thy hatred, still more strong,?Satan, at last take pity on our pain!
O subterranean King, omniscient,?Healer of man's immortal discontent,?Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
To lepers and to outcasts thou dost show?That Passion is the Paradise below.?Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thou by thy mistress Death hast given to man?Hope, the imperishable courtesan.?Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thou givest to the Guilty their calm mien?Which damns the crowd around the guillotine.?Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thou knowest the corners of the jealous Earth?Where God has hidden jewels of great worth.?Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thou dost discover by mysterious signs?Where sleep the buried people of the mines.?Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thou stretchest forth a saving hand to keep?Such men as roam upon the roofs in sleep.?Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thy power can make the halting Drunkard's feet?Avoid the peril of the surging street.?Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thou, to console our helplessness, didst plot?The cunning use of powder and of shot.?Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thy awful name is written as with pitch?On the unrelenting foreheads of the rich.?Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
In strange and hidden places thou dost move?Where women cry for torture in their love.?Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Father of those whom God's tempestuous ire?Has flung from Paradise with sword and fire,?Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
PRAYER
Satan, to thee be praise upon the Height?Where thou wast king of old, and in the night?Of Hell, where thou dost dream on silently.?Grant that one day beneath the Knowledge-tree,?When it shoots forth to grace thy royal brow,?My soul may sit, that cries upon thee now.
THE TRANSLATOR AND THE CHILDREN
While I translated Baudelaire,?Children were playing out in the air.?Turning to watch, I saw the light?That made their clothes and faces bright.?I heard the tune they meant to sing?As they kept dancing in a ring;?But I could not forget my book,?And thought of men whose faces shook?When babies passed them with a look.
They are as terrible as death,?Those children in the road beneath.?Their witless chatter is more dread?Than voices in a madman's head:?Their dance more awful and inspired,?Because their feet are never tired,?Than silent revel with soft sound?Of pipes, on consecrated ground,?When all the ghosts go round and round.
OPPORTUNITY (from Machiavelli.)
"But who art thou, with curious beauty graced,?O woman, stamped with some bright heavenly seal?Why go thy feet on wings, and in such haste?"
"I am that maid whose secret few may steal,?Called Opportunity. I hasten by?Because my feet are treading on a wheel,
Being more swift to run than birds to fly.?And rightly on my feet my wings I wear,?To blind the sight of those who track and spy;
Rightly in front I hold my scattered hair?To veil my face, and down my breast to fall,?Lest men should know my name when I am there;
And leave behind my back no wisp at all?For eager folk to clutch, what time I glide?So near, and turn, and pass beyond recall."
"Tell me; who is that Figure at thy side?"?"Penitence. Mark this well that by decree?Who lets me go must keep her for his bride.
And thou hast spent much time in talk with me?Busied with thoughts and fancies vainly grand,?Nor hast remarked, O fool, neither dost see?How lightly I have fled beneath thy hand."
DESTROYER OF SHIPS, MEN, CITIES
Helen of Troy has sprung from Hell
To claim her ancient throne,?So we have bidden friends farewell
To follow her alone.
The Lady of the laurelled brow,
The Queen of pride and power,?Looks rather like a phantom now,
And rather like a flower.
Deep in her eyes the lamp of night
Burns with a secret flame,?Where shadows pass that have no sight,
And ghosts that have no name.
For mute is battle's brazen horn
That rang for Priest and King,?And she who drank of that brave morn
Is pale with evening.
An hour there is when bright words flow,
A little hour for sleep,?An hour between, when lights are low,
And then she seems to weep,
But no less lovely than of old
She shines, and almost hears?The horns that blew in days of gold,
The shouting charioteers.
And still she breaks the hearts of men,
Their hearts and