Silverpoints | Page 4

shadow seals my sight,
one shriek my lips has fed.?With a wrung, sullen shudder
my poor heart is dead.?The cavalier dismounts;
and, kneeling on the ground,?His finger iron-mailed
he thrusts into the wound.?Suddenly, at the freezing touch,
the iron smart,?At once within me bursts
a new, a noble heart.?Suddenly, as the steel
into the wound is pressed,?A heart all beautiful
and young throbs in my breast.?Trembling, incredulous
I sat; but ill at ease,?As one who, in a holy trance,
strange visions sees.?While the good cavalier,
remounted on his horse,?Left me a parting nod
as he retook his course,?And shouted to me
(still I hear his cries):?"Once only can the miracle
avail.--Be wise!"
SPLEEN
The roses every one were red,?And all the ivy leaves were black.
Sweet, do not even stir your head,?Or all of my despairs come back.
The sky is too blue, too delicate:?Too soft the air, too green the sea.
I fear---how long had I to wait!--?That you will tear yourself from me.
The shining box-leaves weary me,?The varnished holly's glistening,
The stretch of infinite country;?So, saving you, does everything.
CLAIR DE LUNE
How like a well-kept garden is your soul,?With bergomask and solemn minuet!?Playing upon the lute! The dancers seem?But sad, beneath their strange habiliments.?While, in the minor key, their songs extol?The victor Love, and life's sweet blandishments,?Their looks belie the burden of their lays,?The songs that mingle with the still moon-beams.?So strange, so beautiful, the pallid rays;?Making the birds among the branches dream,?And sob with ecstasy the slender jets,
The fountains tall that leap upon the lawns?Amid the garden gods, the marble fauns.
MON DIEU M'A DIT: . . .
God has spoken: Love me,
son, thou must; Oh see?My broken side; my heart,
its rays refulgent shine;?My feet, insulted, stabbed,
that Mary bathes with brine?Of bitter tears my sad arms,
helpless, son, for thee;
With thy sins heavy; and my hands;
thou seest the rod;?Thou seest the nails, the sponge,
the gall; and all my pain?Must teach thee love, amidst a world
where flesh doth reign,?My flesh alone, my blood,
my voice, the voice of God,
Say, have I not loved thee,
loved thee to death,?O brother in my Father,
in the Spirit son??Say, as the word is written,
is my work not done??Thy deepest woe have I not sobbed
with struggling breath??Has not thy sweat of anguished nights
from all my pores in pain?Of blood dripped, piteous friend,
who seekest me in vain?
GREEN
Leaves and branches, flowers and fruits are here;?And here my heart, which throbs alone for thee.?Ah! do not wound my heart with those two dear?White hands, but take the poor gift tenderly.
I come, all covered with the dews of night?The morning breeze has pearled upon my face.?Let my fatigue, at thy feet, in thy sight,?Dream through the moments of its sweet solace.
With thy late kisses ringing, let my head?Roll in blest indolence on thy young breast;?To lull the tempest thy caresses bred,?And soothe my senses with a little rest.
FLEURS. IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH?OF STEPHANE MALLARM��
The tawny iris--oh! the slim-necked swan;?And, sign of exiled souls, the bay divine;?Ruddy as seraph's heel its fleckless sheen,?Blushing the brightness of a trampled dawn.
The hyacinth; the myrtle's sweet alarm;?Like to a woman's flesh, the cruel rose,?Blossom'd Herodiade of the garden close,?Fed with ferocious dew of blooddrops warm.
Thou mad'st the lilies' pallor, nigh to swoon.?Which, rolling billows of deep sighs upon,?Through the blue incense of horizons wan,?Creeps dreamily towards the weeping moon.
Praise in the censers, praise upon the gong,?Madone! from the garden of our woes:?On eves celestial throb the echo long!?Ecstatic visions! radiance of haloes!
Mother creatrice! in thy strong, just womb,?Challices nodding the not distant strife;?Great honey'd blossoms, a balsamic tomb?For weary poets blanched with starless life.
CHARLEVILLE. IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH?OF ARTHUR RIMBAUD
TO FRANK HARRIS
The square, with gravel paths and shabby lawns.?Correct, the trees and flowers repress their yawns.?The tradesman brings his favourite conceit,?To air it, while he stifles with the heat.
In the kiosk, the military band.?The shakos nod the time of the quadrilles.?The flaunting dandy strolls about the stand.?The notary, half unconscious of his seals.
On the green seats, small groups of grocermen,?Absorbed, their sticks scooping a little hole?Upon the path, talk market prices; then?Take up a cue: I think, upon the whole. . . .
The loutish roughs are larking on the grass.?The sentimental trooper, with a rose?Between his teeth, seeing a baby, grows?More tender, with an eye upon the nurse.
Unbuttoned, like a student, I follow?A couple of girls along the chesnut row.?They know I am following, for they turn and laugh,?Half impudent, half shy, inviting chaff.
I do not say a word. I only stare?At their round, fluffy necks. I follow where?The shoulders drop; I struggle to define?The subtle torso's hesitating line.
Only my rustling tread, deliberate, slow;?The rippled silence from the still leaves drips.?They think I am an idiot, they speak low;?-- I feel faint kisses creeping on my lips.
SENSATION
I walk the alleys trampled through the wheat,?Through whole blue summer eves, on velvet grass.?Dreaming, I feel the dampness at my feet;?The breezes bathe my naked head and pass.
I do not