Chapter 4

Isis bequeathed her veil of old To modern daughters of the Nile. But through this band austere, behold, Two stars of radiance beam and smile,--

Two stars, two eyes, two poems that spring, The soft, voluptuous fires whereof Resolve the riddle, murmuring: "Lo, I am Beauty! Be thou Love!"

THE GARRET

From balcony tiles where casual cats Sit low in wait for birds unwise, I see the worn and riven slats Of a poor, humble garret rise.

Now could I as an author lie, To give you comfort as you think, Its window I would falsify, And frame with flowers refined and pink,

And place within it Rigolette With her cheap looking-glass, somehow, Whose broken glazing mirrors yet A portion of her pretty brow;

Or Margery, her dress undone, Her hair blown free, her tie forgot, Watering in the pleasant sun Her pail-encompassed garden-plot;

Or poet-youth whom fame awaits, Who scans his verse and eyes the hills, Or in a reverie contemplates Montmartre with its distant mills.

Alas! my garret is no feint. There climbeth no convolvulus. The window with its nibbled paint Leers filmy and unluminous.

Alike for artist and grisette, Alike for widower and lad, A garret--save to music set-- Is never otherwise than sad.

Of old, beneath an angle pent, That forced the forehead to a kiss, Love, with a folding-couch content, To chat with Susan deemed it bliss.

But we must wad our bliss about With cushioned walls and laces wide, And silks that flutter in and out, O'er beds by Monbro canopied.

This evening, to Mount Breda fled Is Rigolette, to linger there, And Margery, well clothed and fed, No longer tends her garden fair.

The poet, tired of catching rimes Upon the wing, has turned to cull Reporter's bays, and left betimes A heaven for an entresol.

And in the window this is all: An ancient goody chattering, And railing at a kitten small That toys forever with a string.

THE CLOUD

Lightly in the azure air Soars a cloud, emerging free Like a virgin from the fair Blue sea;

Or an Aphrodite sweet, Floating upright and empearled In the shell, about its feet Foam-curled.

Undulating overhead, How its changing body glows! On its shoulder dawn hath spread A rose.

Marble, snow, blend amorously In that form by sunlight kissed-- Slumbering Antiope Of mist!

Sailing unto distant goal, Over Alps and Apennines, Sister of the woman-soul, It shines;

Till my heart flies forth at last On the wings of passion warm, And I yearn to gather fast Its form.

Reason saith: "Mere vapour thing! Bursting bubble! Yet, we deem, Holds this wind-distorted ring Our dream."

Faith declareth: "Beauty seen, Like a cloud, is but a thought, Or a breath, that, having been, Is naught.

"Have thy vision. Build it proud. Let thy soul be full thereof. Love a woman--love a cloud-- But love!"

THE BLACKBIRD

A bird from yonder branch at dawn Is trilling forth a joyful note, Or hopping o'er the frozen lawn, In yellow boots and ebon coat.

It is the blackbird credulous. Little of calendar knows he, Whose soul, with sunbeams luminous, Sings April to the snows that be.

Rain sweeps in torrents unrepressed. The Arve makes dull the Rhone with mire. The pleasant hall retains its guest In goodly cheer before the fire.

The mountains have their ermine on, Each one a mighty magistrate, And hold grave conference upon A case of Winter lasting late.

The bird dries well his wing, and long, Despite the rains, the mists that roll, Insists upon his little song, Believes in Spring with all his soul.

He softly chides the slumberous morn For dallying so long abed, And bids the shivering flower forlorn Be bold, and raise aloft its head;

Behind the dark sees day that smiles, Even as behind the Holy Rod, When bare the altar, dim the aisles, The child of faith beholds his God.

He trusts to Nature's purpose high, Sure of her laws for here and now. Who laughs at thy philosophy, Dear blackbird, is less wise than thou!

THE FLOWER THAT MAKES THE SPRINGTIME

The chestnut trees are soon to flower At fair _Saint Jean,_ the villa dipped In sun, before whose viny tower Stretch purple mountains silver-tipped.

The little leaves that yesterday Pressed in their bodices were seen Have put their sober garb away, And touched the tender twigs with green.

But vainly do the sunbeams fill The branches with a flood of light. The shy bud hesitateth still To show the secret thyrse of white.

And yet the rosy peach-tree blooms, Like some faint blush of first desire. The apple waves a wealth of plumes, And laughs in all its fresh attire.

To bask amid the buttercups The timid speedwell ventures out. Nature calls every earthling up, And reassures each tiny sprout.

Yet I must off to other sphere! Then please your poet, chestnuts tall, Yea, spread ye forth without a fear Your firework bloom fantastical!

I know your summer splendour's pride. I've seen you standing sumptuous In autumn's tunics purple-dyed, With golden circlets luminous.

In winter white and crystal-crossed Your delicate boughs I saw again,-- Like lovely traceries the frost Limns lightly on the window-pane.

Your every garment I have known, Ye chestnuts grand that loom aloft,-- Save one to me you've never shown, Of young green fabric first and soft.

Ah, well, good-bye, for I must go! Keep, then, your flowers, where'er they be. There is another flower I know, That makes the springtime fair for me.

Let May with all her blooms arise, Let May with all her blooms depart! That flower sufficeth for mine eyes, And hath pure honey in its heart.

Let be the season where it waits, And blue or dull be heaven's dome-- It smiles and charms and captivates,-- The precious violet of my home!

A LAST WISH

How long my soul has loved thee, love! It is full many a year agone. Thy spring--what charm of flowers thereof, My winter--what wild snows thereon!

White lilacs from the land of graves Blow near my temples. Soon enow Thou'lt mark the pallid mass that waves Enshadowing my withered brow.

My westering sun must speedy drop, And disappear behind the road. Already on the dim hill-top, There gleams and waits my last abode.

Then from thy rosy lips let fall Upon my lips a tardy kiss, That in my tomb, when comes the call, My heart may rest, remembering this.

THE DOVE

O tender, beauteous dove, Calling such plaintive things! Wilt serve unto my love, And be my love's own wings?

O, but we 're like, poor heart! Thy dear one, too, is far. Remembering, apart, Each weeps beneath the star.

Let not thy rosy feet Stay once on any tower,-- I am so fain, my sweet,-- So weary turns the hour!

Forswear the palm's repose That spreadeth over all, And gables where the snows Of other pinions fall.

Now fail me not, nor fear! He dwelleth near the king. Give him this letter, dear, These kisses on thy wing.

Then seek again my breast, This flaming, throbbing goal, Then come, my dove, and rest-- But bring me back his soul!

A PLEASANT EVENING

What flurrying of rains and snows! Now every coachman, blue of nose, In fur and ire Sits petrified. Oh, it were right To spend this wild December night Before one's fire!

The cosy chimney-corner chair Assumes its most persuasive air. I seem to see Its arms held out, its voice to hear, Beseeching like a mistress dear: "Ah, stay with me!"

A gauze reveals the orbèd lamp, Like a fair breast beneath a guimpe, And drowsily The shimmer of its light ascends, Flushing with gold and crimson blends The ceiling high.

The silence frames no sound of things, Save for the pendulum that swings Its golden disk, And many winds that roam and weep, Or stealthy to the hall-way sweep, To dance and frisk.

It's ball-night at the Embassy. My coat's limp sleeves are signalling me To dress anon. My waistcoat yawns. My shirt obtuse Seems raising high its wristbands loose, To be put on.

A narrow boot's abundant glaze Reflects the ruddy firelight's blaze. Have I forgot? A glove's flat fingers span the shelf. A thin cravat protrudes itself, And begs a knot.

Then must I forth? But what a bore-- To seek the over-crowded door! To fall in line Of coaches bearing coats of arms And haughty beauties with their charms, Superb and fine!

To stand against a portal wide And see the surging mass inside Bear form on form: Old faces, faces fresh and young, Black coats low bodices among,-- A motley swarm!

And puffy backs that hide their red With laces fine of costly thread Aerial, Dandies, diplomatists, that press, With features dull, expressionless, At fashion's call.

What! Brave, to win a glance of hers, The rows of lynx-eyed dowagers! Try undeterred To speak the dear name of my dear, And whisper softly in her ear Love's little word!

Nay, but I'll not! Her eye shall heed A letter in the flowers I'll speed. No ball-room now! Let Parma violets make good Whatever be her passing mood. They hold my vow.

Ensconced with Heine or with Taine, Or, if I like, the Goncourts twain, The time will go. I'll dream, until the hour shall stir Reality, and wait for her. She'll come, I know.

ART

More fair the work, more strong, Stamped in resistance long,-- Enamel, marble, song.

Poet, no shackles bear, Yet bid thy Muse to wear The buskin bound with care.

A fashion loose forsake,-- A shoe of sloven make, That any foot may take.

Sculptor, the clay withstand, That yieldeth to the hand, Though listless heart command.

Contend till thou have wrought, Till the hard stone have caught The beauty of thy thought.

With Paros match thy might, And with Carrara bright, That guard the line of light.

Borrow from Syracuse The bronze's stubborn use, Wherein thy form to choose.

And with a delicate grace In the veined onyx trace Apollo's perfect face.

Painter, put thou aside The transient. Be thy pride The colour furnace-tried.

Limn thou, fantastic, free Blue sirens of the sea, And beasts of heraldry.

Before a nimbus gold Transcendently uphold The Child, the Cross foretold.

Things perish. Gods have passed. But song sublimely cast Shall citadels outlast.

And the forgotten seal Turned by the plowman's steel An emperor may reveal.

For Art alone is great: The bust survives the state, The crown the potentate.

Carve, burnish, build thy theme,-- But fix thy wavering dream In the stern rock supreme.

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[Transcribers notes: I have created this online text from two sources: _E?maux et came?es_ by The?ophile Gautier (Paris: Charpentier, 1872), and Agnes Lee's English translation entitled _Enamels and Cameos_, published in Volume XXIV of _The Complete Works of The?ophile Gautier_ (Cambridge, MA: University Press, John Wilson and Son, 1903). Lee added line indentations for most of the poems which were not present in Gautier's original text, so I have not included them here. Apart from this, the online text follows Lee's translation, including her dedicatory sonnet.]