Silverpoints | Page 5

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 think a single thought, nor say
A word; but in my soul the
mists upcurl
Of infinite love. I will go far away
With nature,
happily, as with a girl.
À UNE MADONE. IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH
OF
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
Madone! my lady, I will build for thee
A grotto altar of my misery.

Deep will I scoop, where darkest lies my heart,
Far from the world's
cupidity apart,
A niche, with mercy stained, and streaked with gold,
Where none thy
statue's wonder may behold.
Then, for thy head, I will fashion a tiar,
A filigree of verse, with many
a star
Of crystal rhyme its heavy folds upon.
And jealousy, O mortal! my
Madone,
Shall cut for thee a gown, of dreadful guise,
Which like a portcullis,
shall veil thy thighs;
Rude, heavy curtain, faced with bitter fears,
Broidered, in place of
pearls, with all my tears.

And, of my worship, shoes will I design;
Two satin shoes, to case thy
feet divine,
Which, while their precious freight they softly hold,
Shall guard the
imprint in a faithful mould.
If I should fail to forge a silver moon,
I with my art, for thee to tread
upon,
Then will I place the writhing beast that hangs
Upon my heart, and
tears it with his fangs,
Where thou may'st crush his head, and smile supreme,
O majesty! all
potent to redeem.
And all my thoughts, like candles, shalt thou see
before thine altar
spread, Star of the Sea!
Starring thine azure roof with points of fire.
With nought hut thee to
cherish and admire,
So shall my soul in plaintive fumes arise
Of incense ever to thy
pitying eyes.
Last, that indeed a Mary thou may'st be,
And that my love be mixed
with cruelty--
O foul voluptuousness! when I have made
Of every deadly sin a
deadlier blade,
Torturer filled with pain will I draw near
The target of thy breast, and,
sick with fear,
Deliberately plant them all where throbs
Thy bleeding heart, and
stifling with its sobs.
FEMMES DAMNÉES

Like moody beasts they lie along the sands;,
Look where the sky
against the sea-rim clings:
Foot stretches out to foot, and groping
hands
Have languors soft and bitter shudderings.
Some, smitten hearts with the long secrecies,
On velvet moss, deep in
their bowers' ease,
Prattling the love of timid infancies,
Are tearing
the green bark from the young trees.
Others, like sisters, slowly walk and grave;
By rocks that swarm with
ghostly legions,
Where Anthony saw surging on the waves
The
purple breasts of his temptations,
Some, by the light of crumbling, resinous gums,
In the still hollows
of old pagan dens,
Call thee in aid to their deliriums
O Bacchus!
cajoler of ancient pains.
And those whose breasts for scapulars are fain
Nurse under their long
robes the cruel thong.
These, in dim woods, where huddling shadows
throng.
Mix with the foam of pleasure tears of pain.
LE VOYAGE À CYTHÈRE
Bird-like, my heart was glad to soar and vault;
Fluttering among the
cordages; and on
The vessel flew, under an empty vault:
An angel
drunken of a radiant sun.
Tell me, what is that gray, that sombre isle?
'Tis Cythera, famed on
many a poet string;
A name that has not lacked the slavering smile;

But now, you see, it is not much to sing.
Isle of soft whispers, tremours of the heart!
The splendid phantom of
thy rude goddess
Floats on thy seas like breath of spikenard,

Charging men's souls with love and lusciousness.
Sweet isle of myrtles, once of open blooms:
Now only of lean lands
most lean: it seems
A flinty desert bitter with shrill screams:
But

one strange object on its horror looms.
Not a fair temple, foiled with coppiced trees,
Where the young
priestess, mistress of the flowers,
Goes opening her gown to the cool
breeze,
To still the fire,