Part 6

One day there was a poor little banquet in the suburbs of my soul! Hemlock was being mown one Sunday morning; And all the virgins of the convent were watching vessels passing on the canal, one day of fasting and of sunshine, While the swans were pining under a poisonous bridge; They were pruning trees round the prison, They were bringing medicines one afternoon in June, And meals of patients were being spread at all the horizons!

My soul! And the sadness of it all, my soul! and the sadness of it all!

LASSITUDE.

These kisses know no longer where to rest, For blind and cold the eyes were they caressed; Henceforth asleep in splendid reverie they Watch dreamily, as in the grass dogs may, The grey horizon-herded sheep-folk graze Upon the turf the moon's dishevelled rays, Kissed by the sun, dark as their life is dark; Indifferent, without an envious spark For pleasure's roses under them unclosing; And this long, green, ununderstood reposing.

TIRED WILD BEASTS.

O laughter and passion-sighs, And sobs that the sick breast heaves! Sick and with half-closed eyes Among dishevelled leaves,

My hate's hyenas slouching, My sin's yellow dogs, and, large, At the weary, pale desert's marge, The lions of love are crouching!

In a listless dream they lie, And, languid and oppressed, Under their colourless sky They watch, and shall without rest,

Temptation's sheep together, Or one by one, depart, And in the moon at tether The passions of my heart.

LUSTRELESS HOURS.

Here are old desires marching past, Dream after dream reeling by, Dream after dream failing fast; Hope's days are doomed to die!

To whom must we flee to-day! No star to show us whereto; But ice on our hearts grown gray, And in the moon linen blue.

Sob after sob is trapped! Fireless the sick in the city, The grass of the lambs is lapped In snow, Sweet Saviour, pity!

But I, till the sleep is done, Await, I shall waken soon, I wait for a little sun On my hands iced by the moon.

THE HOSPITAL.

Hospital! Hospital on the canal! Hospital in July! There is a fire in the room! While ocean liners blow their whistle on the canal!

(O! do not come near the windows!) Emigrants are crossing a palace! I see a yacht in the tempest! I see flocks on all the ships! (It is better to keep all the windows closed, One is almost sheltered from the outside.) It is like a hot-house on snow, You are going with a woman's churching on a stormy day, You have a glimpse of plants shed o'er a linen sheet, There is a conflagration in the sun, And I cross a forest full of wounded men.

O! now at last the moonlight!

A jet of water rises in the middle of the room! A troop of little girls half open the door!

I catch a glimpse of lambs on an island in the meadows! And of beautiful plants on a glacier! And lilies in a marble vestibule! There is a festival in a virgin forest! And an oriental vegetation in a cave of ice!

Listen! the locks are opened! And the ocean liners stir the water of the canal!

O! but the sister of charity poking the fire!

All the beautiful green rushes of the banks are on fire! A vessel full of wounded men rocks in the moonlight! All the King's daughters are in a bark in the storm! And the Princesses are going to die in a field of hemlock!

O! do not leave the lattices ajar! Listen: the ocean liners still are blowing their whistle on the horizon!

Some one is being poisoned in a garden! People are banqueting in the house of their enemies!

There are stags in a town that is besieged! And a menagerie amid the lilies! There is a tropical vegetation in a coal-pit! A flock of sheep is crossing an iron bridge! And the lambs of the meadow are coming sadly into the room!

Now the sister of charity lights the lamps, She brings the patients their meal, She has closed the windows on the canal, And all the doors to the moon.

WINTER DESIRES.

I weep for lips whose brief Red no kisses hath known, And for longing left to moan In a reaped, rich harvest of grief.

The rain must pour and pour! Or the snow is thick on the sward, While crouching wolves do ward My threshold of dreams evermore,

And watch in my soul ever sighing, With eyes in the past nigh dead, All the blood that of old was shed Of lambs on the hard ice dying.

Only the moon with its chill, Monotonous sadness lights, While autumn the thin grass blights, My longing with hunger ill.

ROUNDELAY OF WEARINESS.

I sing the dirges pale Of kisses lost and cold; On love's thin grass I behold Weddings of them that ail.

In my slumber voices sing; How nonchalant they are! And in streets without sun or star Lilies are opening.

These things my heart desired, These flights that backward fall, Are the poor in a palace hall, And in the dawn candles tired.

At the grim night's threshold I launch Mine eyes far out, and know That the moon, with its linen slow And blue, my dreams will stanch.

BURNING GLASS.

Ancient hours I behold Under regrets ripening, And fairer flora spring From their secrets' azure mould.

Desires blow through my spirit. O glass upon my desires! And the withered grass my soul fires, When breathing memories stir it.

It grows with my thoughts for mould, And in the blue fleeing fast I see the griefs of the past Their flower-petals unfold.

My soul through memories gropes, Feels the touch of their Curtaining dead mohair; And greens with other hopes.

LOOKS OF EYES.

O these looks of poor, tired eyes! And yours and mine! And those that are no more and those that shall be! And those that never shall arrive and those that notwithstanding do exist! Some seem to be visiting the poor on a Sunday; Some are like sick people with no home; Some are like lambs in a meadow covered with linen. And these unusual looks! There are some under whose vault are people watching the execution of a virgin in a closed room, And some that make one think of unknown melancholies! Of peasants at the windows of a factory, Of a gardener who has turned weaver, Of a summer afternoon in a museum of waxen images, Of the thoughts of a queen who watches a sick man in the garden, Of an odour of camphor in the forest, Of shutting a princess up in a tower, some festal day, Of sailing for a whole week on a warm canal. Pity all those who come out with short steps like convalescents at harvest time! Pity all those who look like children gone astray at meal-time! Pity the eyes of the wounded man who looks up at the surgeon, His looks like tents under the storm! Pity the looks of the tempted virgin! (O! rivers of milk are going to flee in the darkness! And the swans are dead amid the serpents!) And the looks of the virgin who succumbs! Princesses abandoned in swamps without an issue! And these eyes wherein vessels in full sail vanish lit by the tempest! And the pity of all these looks which suffer with not being otherwhere! And all the sufferings indistinct and yet diverse! And these that never any one will understand! And these poor looks nigh mute! And these poor looks that whisper! And these poor stifled looks!

Here in our midst one thinks one is in a castle which serves as a hospital! And so many others look like tents, lilies of war, on the convent's narrow lawn! And so many others look like wounded men being tended in a hot-house! And so many others look like a sister of charity on an ocean liner where there are no sick!

O! to have seen all these looks! To have taken all these looks into oneself! And to have exhausted mine in meeting them! And henceforth not to be able any more to close my eyes!

THE SOUL IN THE NIGHT.

My soul in the end is tired; Tired of her sad, sad state, And of being undesired. Sad and tired I await Your hands upon my face.

I await your pure hands, still As angels of ice might be, Till they bring the ring to me: On my face your fingers chill, Like a treasure under the sea.

I await their healing deep, Not to die in the sun, To die without hope in the sun! They wash my burning eyes, Where so many poor ones sleep.

Where so many swans on the sea, Are stretching, lost on the main, Their necks morose in vain, Where along the gardens of winter, The sick break roses in rain.

I wait for your pure fingers yet, Like angels of ice are they, I wait till mine eyes they wet, The withered grass of mine eyes, Where the tired lambs are astray!

SONGS.

I.

Into a cave the maid she threw, A sign upon the door she drew; The maid forgot the light, the key Fell down into the sea.

She waited while the summer went: More than seven years she was pent, Every year a stranger passed.

She waited while the winter went; And while she waited, waited yet, Her hair the light could not forget.

It sought the light, and found it out, It glided through the stones about, And lit the rocks that held her pent.

One eve again a passer-by, He knew not what the radiance meant, And dared not come anigh.

He thinks a portent is foretold, He thinks it is a well of gold. He thinks the angels are at play, He turns aside, and wends his way.

II.

And if he come back some day, What shall be said to him?-- One for him waited, say, Until her eyes grew dim....

And if again he spake, And did not know me more?-- Like a sister answer make, He might be suffering sore....

And if he would be told Where you are dwelling now?-- Give him my ring of gold, And bend your silent brow....

And if he miss the clock's tick, And see the dust on the floor?-- Show him the lamp's burnt wick, Show him the open door....

And if his last he saith, And ask how you fell asleep?-- Tell him I smiled in death, For fear lest he should weep....

III.

Three little maidens they have slain To find out what their hearts contain

The first of them was brimmed with bliss, And everywhere her blood was shed For full three years three serpents hiss.

The second full of kindness sweet, And everywhere her blood was shed, Three lambs three years have grass to eat.

The third was full of pain and rue, And everywhere her blood was shed, Three seraphim watch three years through.

IV.

The maids with the bandaged eyes (Do off the bands of gold) The maids with the bandaged eyes Are seeking their destinies....

Went in at the noon of day (Keep on the bands of gold) In at the gate went they Of the palace of prairies gray....

Life saluting then, (Tie close the bands of gold) Life saluting then, They never came out again.

V.

The three blind sisters, (Let not our hope grow cold) The three blind sisters Have their lamps of gold.

Into the tower they climb, (We, you, and they) Into the tower they climb, Wait till the seventh day....

Ah! said the first one, (Still hopes the heart, and fights) Ah! said the first one, I can hear our lights....

Ah! said the second, bending, (They, you, and we) Ah! said the second, bending, It is the King ascending....

Nay, said the saintliest, (Still be our courage stout) Nay, said the saintliest, Our lights have all gone out....

VI.

The seven virgins of Orlamonde, When the fairy had passed away, The seven virgins of Orlamonde, Sought the gates of day.

Have lit the wick of their seven lanterns, Have opened, flight by flight, The door of full four hundred chambers, But have not found the light ...

They come unto the sounding caverns, Go down, with courage cold, And in the lock of a closed portal Find a key of gold.

Through the chinks they see the ocean, They are afraid of death, Dare not ope, knock at the portal, With bated breath.

VII.

She had three diadems of gold, To whom did she give them?

Does one unto her parents bring: And they have bought three reeds of gold, And kept it till the Spring.

Gives one unto her lovers all: And they have bought three nets of silver, And kept it till the Fall.

One she to her children brings: And they have brought three iron rings, And chained it up the Winter long.

VIII.

Towards the palace she came-- The sun was scarcely rising-- Towards the palace she came, The knights all gazed, surmising, Silent was every dame.

She stopped before the gate-- The sun was scarcely rising-- She stopped before the gate; They heard the Queen descending, And the King questioning her.

Where are you wending, where are you wending? One scarce can see, take care-- Where are you wending, where are you wending? Does some one wait for you there? But she made answer not.

She came down towards the Stranger,-- Take care, one scarce can see-- She came down towards the Stranger; The Stranger kissed the Queen, No word did either say, But went straightway.

The King at the gate was weeping;-- Take care, one scarce can see-- The King at the gate was weeping; They heard the Queen departing, They heard the leaves down-sweeping.

IX.

You have lighted the lamps,-- O! the sun in the garden! You have lighted the lamps, The sun through the fissures slants, Open the gates of the garden!

The keys of the doors are lost, We must wait, we must wait always, The keys are fallen from the tower, We must wait, we must wait always, We must wait for other days ...

Other days shall open the doors, The forest keeps the bolts, Around us burn the holts, It is the light of the dead leaves, Which burn on the doors' thresholds ...

The other days are wearisome, The other days are also shy, The other days will never come, The other days shall also die, We too shall die here by and bye.

X.

I have sought for thirty years, my sisters, Where hides he ever? I have sought for thirty years, my sisters, And found him never ...

I have walked for thirty years, my sisters, Tired are my feet and hot, He was everywhere, my sisters, Existing not ...

The hour is sad in the end, my sisters, Take off my shoon, The evening is dying also, my sisters, My sick soul will swoon ...

Your years are sixteen, my sisters, The far plains are blue, Take you my staff, my sisters, Seek also you ...

GEORGES MARLOW.

1872.--.

WOMEN IN RESIGNATION.

On Your poor hands pierced by the nail, With hope's long clinging, the old Women have rested their cold Souls without feeling and frail,

In the hush You are dreaming in This night, good Lord! And they sing To the prodigals wandering In the wildernesses of sin:

They are saying, these voices in pain, They must suffer long until The heavenly dawn shall fill Their songs with brightness again,

That since You have wept above The sins of the mad human race, They must wash with tears their face, And pray to You long in love.

On Your poor hands pierced by the nail, With hope's long clinging, the old Women have rested their cold Souls without feeling and frail.

SOULS OF THE EVENING.

While the spindle merrily sings, Old women sing your complaint, The gas-lamps are misty and faint, And the night to the water clings.

Now Jesus walks where greens The dark, cobbled alley, and rests His poor, pierced hands on the breasts Of dreaming Magdalenes;

And of every orphan child, And of houses holy with prayer, Mary Mother has care ... Sing, Jesus meek and mild

Stands in your doorways' gloom, And hears your hymn beseech ... Let the honey of His speech Your desolate hearts perfume!--

The Shepherd of straying sheep Shall lead you home to the fold ... But your soul, old women, must weep, Remembering its wounds of old,

Love, and the heart's long burn, The wounds of hope ever sick, And childhood's dreams falling quick, Shed and dead turn by turn.

Lord, on old women have pity, Whose soul, fair fragile toy, Touched by the kiss of the city, Dreams of the sun of joy!

ALBERT MOCKEL.

1866--.

THE GIRL.

Slender, and so virginal, but why not somewhat languid?--her casque of golden hair is starred sometimes with mellow sparks, and mellow is her mauve silk dress soft in its folds.

She is all music, in the music of her movements bathed, they also soft with pensive grace, and very slow with suppleness that undulatingly unrolls.

An evening party. She has danced, she dances still. Men dark and fair have come and led her off, under the chandeliers in this insipid music,--insipid, and amusing her. Much has she danced (O all this light!) and feels a little weary, weary. Yes, several waltzes; of her partners one could talk, or nearly could;--but he is ugly, and his fish eyes middle-class. The other, on her programme next, is far more handsome, surely: his keen eyes have metallic glints, his hair is glossy black; he is Italian, is he not, or else from Hungary?

Ah! here he comes.

Two heads incline, she takes an arm: they waltz.

This waltz, it rolls with a voluptuous rhythm, in harmony with the rhythm of the Girl, like convoluted masses, musically vaporous and very heavy, volutas without end and curve on curve. They dance, their curves leave traces of caresses in the air, their undulations are a most lascivious music. She? she is very tired, she has no strength as on her cavalier she leans! her thought is vague, so vague along the twining curves, vague in volutas without end, and with the contours of their curves. These curves are turning round lasciviously; she thinks no more, she turns, she turns, she undulates in air and in the music's kisses, tickled by something drunken, by this air which brushes her, this ball:--she shivers.

Now nothing more, her eyes see nothing; things that turn, vague things, volutas vague without an end, and curves that drag her on in velvet rhythms. But all the things around her turn too vaguely, too vaguely cycles turn barbaric, mad; all of it turning, turning; and if she look again she will be sure to fall!...

The waltz continues and lasciviously rolls, rolls in the dizziness of turning things, mad cycles, and all this softness, curves that languish fit to swoon! Feverishly and to flee the crazy dizziness of all these vague and circumambient things, as if to save her life she keeps her look on him.--He plunges his deep down into the great vague eyes before him, until he sets them shuddering ... This man, his eyes are shining; strangely beautiful, they shine with gleams fantastic, and from their fluid comes perverted charm, burning and dominating, almost animal, and with a glaucous glint that troubles her ...

This well-nigh bestial look upon a somewhat pensive, handsome face.... And it is she, she ... Ashamed, in spite of all her dizziness, she takes away her eyes from him who seeks to conquer her. But all is turning, all these things, these vague things turning, turning O too much! she shuts her eyes to see them not, she could not open them again, the rhythms bear her onward crossing one another, brushing some lascivious curve again, the vagueness, O such vagueness of the crazy cycles and lascivious curves that ravish her. Delicate titillation like a feather's sudden touch electrifies her, half-fainting and surrendering she floats like flotsam on his arm; this arm, that like a very soft and powerful billow bears and cradles her; sweetly, irresistibly caresses her, bearing her onward, circling her with a voluptuous embrace, and ... no, no! his eyes through her closed lids she feels them, and their glaucous flame that pierces, conquers her. This glaucous look, this virile and determined look, it weighs upon her, haunting the soft eddyings of the waltz,--and is not this a breath that brushes her, the stifled warmth of a desiring breath, man's breath on her neck....

But the waltz bears her on in whirling, vague, voluptuousness.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF RUNNING WATER.

"The light that my embanking meadow laves Over me like a purer billow glides. Naked in its limpid and transparent waves, It is the magnifying image wherein I Am the diaphanous shadow of the sky.

O beam!... O dream of fire that fills me ... He, my heroic vow that with emotion thrills me, Comes!... but when his flame has lapped me wholly, From over me he rises, fleeing slowly, And in my being I can hear a being die.

Beautiful is the forest, whose O'er-leaning leaves temper my languid heat, Stripped by the wind of gold he strews, And myriad leaves are from each other singled, Dancing to fall upon their glancing selves, And playfully to emulate the frivolous deceit Of a bird's pinion with my waters mingled.

Breezes, trills of songbirds warbling with a breast that wells, All that lives and makes the forest ring retells The melody I murmur to my tall reed-grasses, Aery music that its spirit glasses.

O forest! O sweet forest, thou invitest me to rest And linger in thy shade with moss and shavegrass dressed, Imprisoning me in swoon of soft caresses That o'er me droop thy dense and leafy tresses.

But on I glide, I go, and, fretful, Pass under thee, gliding away my life forgetful. The evanescent soul, the soul where thou wert glassed, Fades, and leaves my sealed eyes nothing of the past.

Far away from me are gone All the glimpses that upon me shone. To other forests and to other lights, Shaking my hair from fall to fall, from spate to spate, I glide with hands untied, and empty-eyed, With endless hours that fetter and control my fate.

Wandering shadow of a reverie banked and pent, Sister of all those whom my waves entrap, Intangible as a soul, and, like a soul, Unfit to seize, I roll Garlands of scattered memories, whose scent Dies in a bitter sap.

And neither who I am nor whence I am I know ... Under my fleeting images lives but one being, That winds with all my windings whither they are fleeing ... O thou whose tired feet I have bathed, and heavy brow, And the caress of avid hands,-- O passer-by, my brother listening to me now!-- Hast thou not seen, from the waste mountains' threshold to my far sea-sands, Born and reborn in me, strong as the whipped flood-tides of love's emotion, The broad, unbroken current rolling me to the ocean?

Hast thou not seen, force without end, immortal rhythm and rhyme, Desire impelling me beyond the bounds of Time?"

THE GOBLET.

Every hand that touches me I greet With kisses welcoming, caresses sweet.

Thus in my crystal's naked beauty, I-- With nothing save a little gold as on my lips a dye-- Give myself wholly to the mouth unknown That seeks the burning of my own.

Queen of joy,--queen and slave,-- Mistress that taken passes on again, Mocking the love she throws to still Desire, I have blown madness at my pleasure's will To the four winds that rave.

Say you that I am vain? List! I am feeble, scarcely I exist ... Yet listen: for I can be everything.

This mouth, that never any kiss could close, Capriciously in subtle fires it blows, The jewelled garlands of a shadowy blossoming.

Tulip of gold or ruby, dense Corolla of dark purple opulence, Stem of a lilial diamond Flowered upon a limpid pond That nothing save the beak of wood-doves troubles, I am sparkling, I am singing,--and I laugh to see, Ascending in this colourless soul of me, As might a dream, a thousand iridescent bubbles.