Part 19

--Ah, those old days, what joys have those days seen When your lips met my lips!--It may have been.

--How blue the sky was, and our hope how light! --Hope has flown helpless back into the night.

They walked through weeds withered and grasses dead, And only the night heard the words they said.

_From Poèmes Saturniens_

I. SOLEILS COUCHANTS

Pale dawn delicately Over earth has spun The sad melancholy Of the setting sun. Sad melancholy Brings oblivion In sad songs to me With the setting sun. And the strangest dreams, Dreams like suns that set On the banks of the streams, Ghost and glory met, To my sense it seems, Pass, and without let, Like great suns that set On the banks of streams.

II. CHANSON D'AUTOMNE

When a sighing begins In the violins Of the autumn-song, My heart is drowned In the slow sound Languorous and long.

Pale as with pain, Breath fails me when The hour tolls deep. My thoughts recover The days that are over, And I weep.

And I go

Where the winds know, Broken and brief, To and fro, As the winds blow A dead leaf.

III. FEMME ET CHATTE

They were at play, she and her cat, And it was marvellous to mark The white paw and the white hand pat Each other in the deepening dark.

The stealthy little lady hid Under her mittens' silken sheath Her deadly agate nails that thrid The silk-like dagger-points of death.

The cat purred primly and drew in Her claws that were of steel filed thin: The devil was in it all the same.

And in the boudoir, while a shout Of laughter in the air rang out, Four sparks of phosphor shone like flame.

_From La Bonne Chanson_

I

The white moon sits And seems to brood Where a swift voice flits From each branch in the wood That the tree-tops cover....

O lover, my lover!

The pool in the meadows Like a looking-glass Casts back the shadows That over it pass Of the willow-bower....

Let us dream: 'tis the hour....

A tender and vast Lull of content Like a cloud is cast From the firmament Where one planet is bright....

'Tis the hour of delight.

II

The fireside, the lamp's little narrow light; The dream with head on hand, and the delight Of eyes that lose themselves in loving looks; The hour of steaming tea and of shut books; The solace to know evening almost gone; The dainty weariness of waiting on The nuptial shadow and night's softest bliss; Ah, it is this that without respite, this That without stay, my tender fancy seeks, Mad with the months and furious with the weeks.

_From Romances sans Paroles_

I

'Tis the ecstasy of repose, 'Tis love when tired lids close, 'Tis the wood's long shuddering In the embrace of the wind, 'Tis, where grey boughs are thinned, Little voices that sing.

O fresh and frail is the sound That twitters above, around, Like the sweet tiny sigh That lies in the shaken grass; Or the sound when waters pass And the pebbles shrink and cry.

What soul is this that complains Over the sleeping plains, And what is it that it saith? Is it mine, is it thine, This lowly hymn I divine In the warm night, low as a breath?

II

I divine, through the veil of a murmuring, The subtle contour of voices gone, And I see, in the glimmering lights that sing, The promise, pale love, of a future dawn.

And my soul and my heart in trouble What are they but an eye that sees, As through a mist an eye sees double, Airs forgotten of songs like these?

O to die of no other dying, Love, than this that computes the showers Of old hours and of new hours flying: O to die of the swing of the hours!

III

Tears in my heart that weeps, Like the rain upon the town. What drowsy languor steeps In tears my heart that weeps?

O sweet sound of the rain On earth and on the roofs! For a heart's weary pain O the song of the rain!

Vain tears, vain tears, my heart! What, none hath done thee wrong? Tears without reason start From my disheartened heart.

This is the weariest woe, O heart, of love and hate Too weary, not to know Why thou hast all this woe.

IV

A frail hand in the rose-grey evening Kisses the shining keys that hardly stir, While, with the light, small flutter of a wing, And old song, like an old tired wanderer, Goes very softly, as if trembling, About the room long redolent of Her.

What lullaby is this that comes again To dandle my poor being with its breath? What wouldst thou have of me, gay laughing strain? What hadst thou, desultory faint refrain That now into the garden to thy death Floatest through the half-opened window-pane?

V

O sad, sad was my soul, alas! For a woman, a woman's sake it was.

I have had no comfort since that day, Although my heart went its way,

Although my heart and my soul went From the woman into banishment.

I have had no comfort since that day, Although my heart went its way.

And my heart, being sore in me, Said to my soul: How can this be,

How can this be or have been thus, This proud, sad banishment of us?

My soul said to my heart: Do I Know what snare we are tangled by,

Seeing that, banished, we know not whether We are divided or together?

VI

Wearily the plain's Endless length expands; The snow shines like grains Of the shifting sands.

Light of day is none, Brazen is the sky; Overhead the moon Seems to live and die.

Where the woods are seen, Grey the oak-trees lift Through the vaporous screen Like the clouds that drift.

Light of day is none, Brazen is the sky; Overhead the moon Seems to live and die.

Broken-winded crow, And you, lean wolves, when The sharp north-winds blow, What do you do then?

Wearily the plain's Endless length expands; The snow shines like grains Of the shifting sands.

VII

There's a flight of green and red In the hurry of hills and rails, Through the shadowy twilight shed By the lamps as daylight pales.

Dim gold light flushes to blood In humble hollows far down; Birds sing low from a wood Of barren trees without crown.

Scarcely more to be felt Than that autumn is gone; Languors, lulled in me, melt In the still air's monotone.

VIII. SPLEEN

The roses were all red, The ivy was all black: Dear, if you turn your head, All my despairs come back.

The sky was too blue, too kind, The sea too green, and the air Too calm: and I know in my mind I shall wake and not find you there.

I am tired of the box-tree's shine And the holly's, that never will pass, And the plain's unending line, And of all but you, alas!

IX. STREETS

Dance the jig!

I loved best her pretty eyes Clearer than stars in any skies, I loved her eyes for their dear lies.

Dance the jig!

And ah! the ways, the ways she had Of driving a poor lover mad: It made a man's heart sad and glad.

Dance the jig!

But now I find the old kisses shed From her flower-mouth a rarer red Now that her heart to mine is dead.

Dance the jig!

And I recall, now I recall Old days and hours, and ever shall, And that is best, and best of all.

Dance the jig!

_From Jadis et Naguère_

I. ART POÉTIQUE

Music first and foremost of all! Choose your measure of odd not even, Let it melt in the air of heaven, Pose not, poise not, but rise and fall.

Choose your words, but think not whether Each to other of old belong: What so dear as the dim grey song Where clear and vague are joined together?

'Tis veils of beauty for beautiful eyes, 'Tis the trembling light of the naked noon, 'Tis a medley of blue and gold, the moon And stars in the cool of autumn skies.

Let every shape of its shade be born; Colour, away! come to me, shade! Only of shade can the marriage be made Of dream with dream and of flute with horn.

Shun the Point, lest death with it come, Unholy laughter and cruel wit (For the eyes of the angels weep at it) And all the garbage of scullery-scum.

Take Eloquence, and wring the neck of him! You had better, by force, from time to time, Put a little sense in the head of Rhyme: If you watch him not, you will be at the beck of him.

O, who shall tell us the wrongs of Rhyme? What witless savage or what deaf boy Has made for us this twopenny toy Whose bells ring hollow and out of time?

Music always and music still! Let your verse be the wandering thing That flutters in flight from a soul on the wing Towards other skies at a new whim's will.

Let your verse be the luck of the lure Afloat on the winds that at morning hint Of the odours of thyme and the savour of mint ... And all the rest is literature.

II. MEZZETIN CHANTANT

Go, and with never a care But the care to keep happiness! Crumple a silken dress And snatch a song in the air.

Hear the moral of all the wise In a world where happy folly Is wiser than melancholy: Forget the hour as it flies!

The one thing needful on earth, it Is not to be whimpering. Is life after all a thing Real enough to be worth it?

_From Sagesse_

I

The little hands that once were mine, The hands I loved, the lovely hands, After the roadways and the strands, And realms and kingdoms once divine,

And mortal loss of all that seems Lost with the old sad pagan things, Royal as in the days of kings The dear hands open to me dreams.

Hands of dream, hands of holy flame Upon my soul in blessing laid, What is it that these hands have said That my soul hears and swoons to them?

Is it a phantom, this pure sight Of mother's love made tenderer, Of spirit with spirit linked to share The mutual kinship of delight?

Good sorrow, dear remorse, and ye, Blest dreams, O hands ordained of heaven To tell me if I am forgiven, Make but the sign that pardons me!

II

O my God, thou hast wounded me with love, Behold the wound, that is still vibrating, O my God, thou hast wounded me with love.

O my God, thy fear hath fallen upon me, Behold the burn is there, and it throbs aloud, O my God, thy fear hath fallen upon me.

O my God, I have known that all is vile And that thy glory hath stationed itself in me, O my God, I have known that all is vile.

Drown my soul in floods, floods of thy wine, Mingle my life with the body of thy bread, Drown my soul in floods, floods of thy wine.

Take my blood, that I have not poured out, Take my flesh, unworthy of suffering, Take my blood, that I have not poured out.

Take my brow, that has only learned to blush, To be the footstool of thine adorable feet, Take my brow, that has only learned to blush.

Take my hands, because they have laboured not For coals of fire and for rare frankincense, Take my hands, because they have laboured not.

Take my heart, that has beaten for vain things, To throb under the thorns of Calvary, Take my heart that has beaten for vain things.

Take my feet, frivolous travellers, That they may run to the crying of thy grace, Take my feet, frivolous travellers.

Take my voice, a harsh and a lying noise, For the reproaches of thy Penitence, Take my voice, a harsh and a lying noise

Take mine eyes, luminaries of deceit, That they may be extinguished in the tears of prayer, Take mine eyes, luminaries of deceit.

Alas, thou, God of pardon and promises, What is the pit of mine ingratitude, Alas, thou, God of pardon and promises.

God of terror and God of holiness, Alas, my sinfulness is a black abyss, God of terror and God of holiness.

Thou, God of peace, of joy and delight, All my tears, all my ignorances, Thou, God of peace, of joy and delight.

Thou, O God, knowest all this, all this, How poor I am, poorer than any man, Thou, O God, knowest all this, all this.

And what I have, my God, I give to thee.

III

Slumber dark and deep Falls across my life; I will put to sleep Hope, desire, and strife.

All things pass away, Good and evil seem To my soul to-day Nothing but a dream;

I a cradle laid In a hollow cave, By a great hand swayed: Silence, like the grave.

IV

The body's sadness and the languor thereof Melt and bow me with pity till I could weep, Ah! when the dark hours break it down in sleep And the bedclothes score the skin and the hot hands move; Alert for a little with the fever of day, Damp still with the heavy sweat of the night that has thinned, Like a bird that trembles on a roof in the wind: And the feet that are sorrowful because of the way,

And the breast that a hand has scarred with a double blow, And the mouth that as an open wound is red, And the flesh that shivers and is a painted show, And the eyes, poor eyes so lovely with tears unshed For the sorrow of seeing this also over and done: Sad body, how weak and how punished under the sun!

V

Fairer is the sea Than the minster high, Faithful nurse is she, And last lullaby, And the Virgin prays Over the sea's ways.

Gifts of grief and guerdons From her bounty come, And I hear her pardons Chide her angers home; Nothing in her is Unforgivingness.

She is piteous, She the perilous! Friendly things to us The wave sings to us: You whose hope is past, Here is peace at last.

And beneath the skies, Brighter-hued than they, She has azure dyes, Rose and green and grey. Better is the sea Than all fair things or we.

_From Parallèlement:_

IMPRESSION FAUSSE

Little lady mouse, Black upon the grey of light; Little lady mouse, Grey upon the night.

Now they ring the bell, All good prisoners slumber deep; Now they ring the bell, Nothing now but sleep.

Only pleasant dreams, Love's enough for thinking of; Only pleasant dreams, Long live love!

Moonlight over all, Someone snoring heavily; Moonlight over all In reality.

Now there comes a cloud, It is dark as midnight here; Now there comes a cloud, Dawn begins to peer.

Little lady mouse, Rosy in a ray of blue, Little lady mouse: Up now, all of you!

_From Chansons pour Elle_

You believe that there may be Luck in strangers in the tea: I believe only in your eyes.

You believe in fairy-tales, Days one wins and days one fails: I believe only in your lies.

You believe in heavenly powers, In some saint to whom one prays Or in some Ave that one says.

I believe only in the hours, Coloured with the rosy lights You rain for me on sleepless nights.

And so firmly I receive These for truth, that I believe That only for your sake I live.

_From Epigrammes_

When we go together, if I may see her again, Into the dark wood and the rain;

When we are drunken with air and the sun's delight At the brink of the river of light;

When we are homeless at last, for a moment's space Without city or abiding-place;

And if the slow good-will of the world still seem To cradle us in a dream;

Then, let us sleep the last sleep with no leave-taking, And God will see to the waking.