The doge goes down in state to the seaTo inspect with beady traders' eyesNew cargoes from Crete, Mytilene,Cyprus and Joppa, galleys piledWith bales off which in all the daysOf sailing the sea-wind has not blownThe dust of Arabian caravans.In velvet the doge goes down to the sea.And sniffs the dusty bales of spicePepper from Cathay, nard and musk,Strange marbles from ruined cities, packedIn unfamiliar-scented straw.Black slaves sweat and grin in the sun.Marmosets pull at the pompous gownsOf burgesses. Parrots screamAnd cling swaying to the ochre bales ...Dazzle of the rising dust of tradeSmell of pitch and straining slaves ...And out on the green tide towards the seaDrift the rinds of orient fruitsStrange to the lips, bitter and sweet.
The doge goes down in state to the seaTo inspect with beady traders' eyesNew cargoes from Crete, Mytilene,Cyprus and Joppa, galleys piledWith bales off which in all the daysOf sailing the sea-wind has not blownThe dust of Arabian caravans.
In velvet the doge goes down to the sea.And sniffs the dusty bales of spicePepper from Cathay, nard and musk,Strange marbles from ruined cities, packedIn unfamiliar-scented straw.Black slaves sweat and grin in the sun.Marmosets pull at the pompous gownsOf burgesses. Parrots screamAnd cling swaying to the ochre bales ...
Dazzle of the rising dust of tradeSmell of pitch and straining slaves ...
And out on the green tide towards the seaDrift the rinds of orient fruitsStrange to the lips, bitter and sweet.
The air is drenched to the starsWith fragrance of flowering grapeWhere the hills hunch up from the plainTo the purple dark ridges that sweepTowards the flowery-pale peaks and the snow.Faint as the peaks in the glister of starlight,A figure on a silver-tinkling snow-white muleClimbs the steeply twining stony roadThrough murmuring vineyards to the gateThat gaps with black the wan starlight.The watchman on his three-legged stoolDrowses in his beard, dreamsHe is a boy walking with strong stridesOf slender thighs down a wet road,Where flakes of violet-colored April skyHave brimmed the many puddles till the roadIs as a tattered path across another sky.The watchman on his three-legged stool,Sits snoring in his beard;His dream is full of flowers massed in meadowland,Of larks and thrushes singing in the dawn,Of touch of women's lips and twining hands,And madness of the sprouting spring ...His ears a-sudden ring with the shrill cry:Open watchman of the gate,It is I, the Cyprian.—It is ruled by the burghers of this townOf Asolo, that from sundownTo dawn no stranger shall come in,Be he even emperor, or doge's kin.—Open, watchman of the gate,It is I, the Cyprian.—Much scandal has been made of lateBy wandering women in this town.The laws forbid the opening of the gateTill next day once the sun is down.—Watchman know that I who waitAm Queen of Jerusalem, QueenOf Cypress, Lady of Asolo, friendOf the Doge and the Venetian State.There is a sound of drums, and torches flareDims the star-swarm, and war-horns' brayingDrowns the fiddling of crickets in the wall,Hoofs strike fire on the flinty road,Mules in damasked silk caparisonedClimb in long train, strange shadows in torchlight,The road that winds to the city gate.The watchman, fumbling with his keys,Mumbles in his beard:—Had thoughtShe was another Cyprian, strange the dreamsThat come when one has eaten tripe.The great gates creak and groan,The hinges shriek, and the Queen's white muleStalks slowly through.The watchman, in the shadow of the wall,Looks out with heavy eyes:—Strange,What cavalcade is this that clatters into Asolo?These are not men-at-arms,These ruddy boys with vineleaves in their hair!That great-bellied one no seneschalCan be, astride an ass so gauntily!Virgin Mother! Saints! They wear no clothes!And through the gate a warm wind blows,A dizzying perfume of the grape,And a great throng crying Cypris,Cyprian, with cymbals crashing and a shriekOf Thessalian pipes, and swaying of torches,That smell hot like wineskins of resin,That flare on arms empurpled and hot cheeks,And full shouting lips vermillion-red.Youths and girls with streaming hairPelting the night with flowers:Yellow blooms of Adonis, whitescented stars of pale Narcissus,Mad incense of the blooming vine,And carmine passion of pomegranate blooms.A-sudden all the strummings of the night,All the insect-stirrings, all the rustlingsOf budding leaves, the sing-songOf waters brightly gurgling through meadowland,Are shouting with the shouting throng,Crying Cypris, Cyprian,Queen of the seafoam, Queen of the budding year,Queen of eyes that flame and hands that twine,Return to us, return from the fields of asphodel.And all the grey town of AsoloIs full of lutes and songs of love,And vows exchanged from balcony to balconyAcross the singing streets ...But in the garden of the nunnery,Of the sisters of poverty, daughters of dust,The cock crows. The cock crows.The watchman rubs his old ribbed brow:Through the gate, in silk all dusty from the road,Into the grey town asleep under the stars,On tired mules and lean old war-horsesComes a crowd of quarrelling men-at-armsAfter a much-veiled lady with a falcon on her wrist.—This Asolo? What a nasty silent townHe sends me to, that dull old doge.And you, watchman, I've told you thriceThat I am Cypress's Queen, Jerusalem's,And Lady of this dull village, Asolo;Tend your gates better. Are you deaf,That you stand blinking at me, pulling at your dirty beard?You shall be thrashed, when I rule Asolo.—What strange dreams, mumbled in his beardThe ancient watchman, come from eating tripe.
The air is drenched to the starsWith fragrance of flowering grapeWhere the hills hunch up from the plainTo the purple dark ridges that sweepTowards the flowery-pale peaks and the snow.
Faint as the peaks in the glister of starlight,A figure on a silver-tinkling snow-white muleClimbs the steeply twining stony roadThrough murmuring vineyards to the gateThat gaps with black the wan starlight.
The watchman on his three-legged stoolDrowses in his beard, dreamsHe is a boy walking with strong stridesOf slender thighs down a wet road,Where flakes of violet-colored April skyHave brimmed the many puddles till the roadIs as a tattered path across another sky.
The watchman on his three-legged stool,Sits snoring in his beard;His dream is full of flowers massed in meadowland,Of larks and thrushes singing in the dawn,Of touch of women's lips and twining hands,And madness of the sprouting spring ...His ears a-sudden ring with the shrill cry:Open watchman of the gate,It is I, the Cyprian.
—It is ruled by the burghers of this townOf Asolo, that from sundownTo dawn no stranger shall come in,Be he even emperor, or doge's kin.—Open, watchman of the gate,It is I, the Cyprian.
—Much scandal has been made of lateBy wandering women in this town.The laws forbid the opening of the gateTill next day once the sun is down.—Watchman know that I who waitAm Queen of Jerusalem, QueenOf Cypress, Lady of Asolo, friendOf the Doge and the Venetian State.
There is a sound of drums, and torches flareDims the star-swarm, and war-horns' brayingDrowns the fiddling of crickets in the wall,Hoofs strike fire on the flinty road,Mules in damasked silk caparisonedClimb in long train, strange shadows in torchlight,The road that winds to the city gate.
The watchman, fumbling with his keys,Mumbles in his beard:—Had thoughtShe was another Cyprian, strange the dreamsThat come when one has eaten tripe.The great gates creak and groan,The hinges shriek, and the Queen's white muleStalks slowly through.
The watchman, in the shadow of the wall,Looks out with heavy eyes:—Strange,What cavalcade is this that clatters into Asolo?These are not men-at-arms,These ruddy boys with vineleaves in their hair!That great-bellied one no seneschalCan be, astride an ass so gauntily!Virgin Mother! Saints! They wear no clothes!
And through the gate a warm wind blows,A dizzying perfume of the grape,And a great throng crying Cypris,Cyprian, with cymbals crashing and a shriekOf Thessalian pipes, and swaying of torches,That smell hot like wineskins of resin,That flare on arms empurpled and hot cheeks,And full shouting lips vermillion-red.
Youths and girls with streaming hairPelting the night with flowers:Yellow blooms of Adonis, whitescented stars of pale Narcissus,Mad incense of the blooming vine,And carmine passion of pomegranate blooms.
A-sudden all the strummings of the night,All the insect-stirrings, all the rustlingsOf budding leaves, the sing-songOf waters brightly gurgling through meadowland,Are shouting with the shouting throng,Crying Cypris, Cyprian,Queen of the seafoam, Queen of the budding year,Queen of eyes that flame and hands that twine,Return to us, return from the fields of asphodel.
And all the grey town of AsoloIs full of lutes and songs of love,And vows exchanged from balcony to balconyAcross the singing streets ...But in the garden of the nunnery,Of the sisters of poverty, daughters of dust,The cock crows. The cock crows.
The watchman rubs his old ribbed brow:Through the gate, in silk all dusty from the road,Into the grey town asleep under the stars,On tired mules and lean old war-horsesComes a crowd of quarrelling men-at-armsAfter a much-veiled lady with a falcon on her wrist.—This Asolo? What a nasty silent townHe sends me to, that dull old doge.
And you, watchman, I've told you thriceThat I am Cypress's Queen, Jerusalem's,And Lady of this dull village, Asolo;Tend your gates better. Are you deaf,That you stand blinking at me, pulling at your dirty beard?You shall be thrashed, when I rule Asolo.—What strange dreams, mumbled in his beardThe ancient watchman, come from eating tripe.
Shrilly whispering down the lanesThat serpent through the ancient night,They, the scoffers, the scornful of chains,Stride their turbulent flight.The stars spin steel above their headsIn the shut irrevocable sky;Gnarled thorn-branches tear to shredsTheir cloaks of pageantry.A wind blows bitter in the grey,Chills the sweat on throbbing cheeks,And tugs the gaudy rags awayFrom their lean bleeding knees.Their laughter startles the scarlet dawnAmong a tangled spiderworkOf girdered steel, and shrills forlornAnd dies in the rasp of wheels.Whirling like gay prints that whirlIn tatters of squalid gaudiness,Borne with dung and dust in the swirlOf wind down the endless street,With thin lips laughing bitterly,Through the day smeared in sooty smokeThat pours from each red chimney,They speed unseemily.Women with unlustered hair,Men with huge ugly hands of oil,Children, impudently stareAnd point derisive hands.Only ... where a barrel organ thrillsTwo small peak-chested girls to dance,And among the iron clatter spillsA swiftening rhythmy song,They march in velvet silkslashed hose,Strumming guitars and mellow lutes,Strutting pointed Spanish toes,A stately company.
Shrilly whispering down the lanesThat serpent through the ancient night,They, the scoffers, the scornful of chains,Stride their turbulent flight.
The stars spin steel above their headsIn the shut irrevocable sky;Gnarled thorn-branches tear to shredsTheir cloaks of pageantry.
A wind blows bitter in the grey,Chills the sweat on throbbing cheeks,And tugs the gaudy rags awayFrom their lean bleeding knees.
Their laughter startles the scarlet dawnAmong a tangled spiderworkOf girdered steel, and shrills forlornAnd dies in the rasp of wheels.
Whirling like gay prints that whirlIn tatters of squalid gaudiness,Borne with dung and dust in the swirlOf wind down the endless street,
With thin lips laughing bitterly,Through the day smeared in sooty smokeThat pours from each red chimney,They speed unseemily.
Women with unlustered hair,Men with huge ugly hands of oil,Children, impudently stareAnd point derisive hands.
Only ... where a barrel organ thrillsTwo small peak-chested girls to dance,And among the iron clatter spillsA swiftening rhythmy song,
They march in velvet silkslashed hose,Strumming guitars and mellow lutes,Strutting pointed Spanish toes,A stately company.
This is the feast of deathWe make of our pain God;We worship the nails and the rodand pain's last choking breathand the bleeding rack of the cross.The women have wept away their tears,with red eyes turned on death, and lossof friends and kindred, have left the biersflowerless, and bound their heads in their blank veils,and climbed the steep slope of Golgotha; failsat last the wail of their bereavement,and all the jagged world of rocks and desert placesstands before their racked sightless faces,as any ice-sea silent.This is the feast of conquering death.The beaten flesh worships the swishing rod.The lacerated body bows to its God,adores the last agonies of breath.And one more has joined the unnumbereddeathstruck multitudeswho with the loved of old have slumberedages long, where broodsEarth the beneficent goddess,the ultimate queen of quietness,taker of all worn souls and bodiesback into the womb of her first nothingness.But ours, who in the iron night remain,ours the need, the painof his departing.He had lived on out of a happier ageinto our strident torture-cage.He still could singof quiet gardens under rainand clouds and the huge skyand pale deliciousness that is nearly pain.His was a new minstrelsy:strange plaints brought home out of the rich east,twanging songs from Tartar caravans,hints of the sounds that ceasedwith the stilling dawn, wailings of the night,echoes of the web of mystery that spansthe world between the failing and the rising of the wan daylightof the sea, and of a woman's hairhanging gorgeous down a dungeon wall,evening falling on Tintagel,love lost in the mist of old despair.Against the bars of our torture-cagewe beat out our poor lives in vain.We live on cramped in an iron agelike prisoners of oldhigh on the world's battlementsexposed until we die to the chilling raincrouched and chattering from coldfor all scorn to stare at.And we watch one by one the greatstroll leisurely out of the western gateand without a backward look at the strident citydrink down the stirrup-cup of fateembrace the last obscurity.We worship the nails and the rodand pain's last choking breath.We make of our pain God.This is the feast of death.
This is the feast of deathWe make of our pain God;We worship the nails and the rodand pain's last choking breathand the bleeding rack of the cross.
The women have wept away their tears,with red eyes turned on death, and lossof friends and kindred, have left the biersflowerless, and bound their heads in their blank veils,and climbed the steep slope of Golgotha; failsat last the wail of their bereavement,and all the jagged world of rocks and desert placesstands before their racked sightless faces,as any ice-sea silent.
This is the feast of conquering death.The beaten flesh worships the swishing rod.The lacerated body bows to its God,adores the last agonies of breath.
And one more has joined the unnumbereddeathstruck multitudeswho with the loved of old have slumberedages long, where broodsEarth the beneficent goddess,the ultimate queen of quietness,taker of all worn souls and bodiesback into the womb of her first nothingness.
But ours, who in the iron night remain,ours the need, the painof his departing.He had lived on out of a happier ageinto our strident torture-cage.He still could singof quiet gardens under rainand clouds and the huge skyand pale deliciousness that is nearly pain.His was a new minstrelsy:strange plaints brought home out of the rich east,twanging songs from Tartar caravans,hints of the sounds that ceasedwith the stilling dawn, wailings of the night,echoes of the web of mystery that spansthe world between the failing and the rising of the wan daylightof the sea, and of a woman's hairhanging gorgeous down a dungeon wall,evening falling on Tintagel,love lost in the mist of old despair.
Against the bars of our torture-cagewe beat out our poor lives in vain.We live on cramped in an iron agelike prisoners of oldhigh on the world's battlementsexposed until we die to the chilling raincrouched and chattering from coldfor all scorn to stare at.And we watch one by one the greatstroll leisurely out of the western gateand without a backward look at the strident citydrink down the stirrup-cup of fateembrace the last obscurity.
We worship the nails and the rodand pain's last choking breath.We make of our pain God.This is the feast of death.
Beer is free to soldiersIn every bar and tavernAs the regiments victoriousMarch under garlands to the city square.Beer is free to soldiersAnd lips are free, and women,Breathless, stand on tiptoeTo see the flushed young thousands in advance."Beer is free to soldiers;Give all to the liberators" ...Under wreaths of laurelAnd small and large flags fluttering, victorious,They of the frock-coats, with clink of official chains,Are welcoming with eloquence outpouringThe liberating thousands, the victorious;In their speaking is a soaring of great phrases,Balloons of tissue paper,Hung with patriotic bunting,That rise serene into the blue,While the crowds with necks uptiltedGaze at their upward soaringTill they vanish in the blue;And each man feels the blood of lifeRumble in his ears importantWith participation in Events.But not the fluttering of great flagsOr the brass bands blaring, victorious,Or the speeches of persons in frock coats,Who pause for the handclapping of crowds,Not the stamp of men and women dancing,Or the bubbling of beer in the taverns,—Frothy mugs free for the victorious—,Not all the trombone-droning of Events,Can drown the inextinguishible laughter of the gods.And they hear it, the old hooded houses,The great creaking peak-gabled houses,That gossip and chuckle to each otherAcross the clattering streets;They hear it, the old great gates,The grey gates with towers,Where in the changing shrill winds of the yearsHave groaned the poles of many various-colored banners.The poplars of the high-road hear it,From their trembling twigs comes a dry laughing,As they lean towards the glare of the city.And the old hard-laughing paving-stones,Old stones weary with the wearinessOf the labor of men's footsteps,Hear it as they quake and clamourUnder the garlanded wheels of the yawning confident cannonThat are dragged victorious through the flutter of the city.Beer is free to soldiers,Bubbles on wind-parched lips,Moistens easy kissesLavished on the liberators.Beer is free to soldiersAll night in steaming bars,In halls delirious with dancingThat spill their music into thronging streets.—All is free to soldiers,To the weary heroesWho have bled, and soakedThe whole earth in their sacrificial blood,Who have with their bare flesh cloggedThe crazy wheels of Juggernaut,Freed the peoples from the dragon that devoured them,That scorched with greed their pleasant fields and villages,Their quiet delightful places:So they of the frock-coats, amid wreaths and flags victorious,To the crowds in the flaring squares,And a murmurous applauseRises like smoke to mingle in the skyWith the crashing of the bells.But, resounding in the sky,Louder than the tramp of feet,Louder than the crash of bells,Louder than the blare of bands, victorious,Shrieks the inextinguishable laughter of the gods.The old houses rock with it,And wag their great peaked heads,The old gates shake,And the pavings ring with it,As with the iron tramp of old fighters,As with the clank of heels of the victorious,By long ages vanquished.The spouts in the gurgling fountainsWrinkle their shiny griffin faces,Splash the rhythm in their ice-fringed basins—Of the inextinguishable laughter of the gods.And far up into the inky sky,Where great trailing clouds stride across the world,Darkening the spired cities,And the villages folded in the hollows of hills,And the shining cincture of railways,And the pale white twining roads,Sounds with the stir of quiet monotonous breathOf men and women stretched out sleeping,Sounds with the thin wail of painOf hurt things huddled in darkness,Sounds with the victorious racketOf speeches and soldiers drinking,Sounds with the silence of the swarming dead—The inextinguishable laughter of the gods.
Beer is free to soldiersIn every bar and tavernAs the regiments victoriousMarch under garlands to the city square.
Beer is free to soldiersAnd lips are free, and women,Breathless, stand on tiptoeTo see the flushed young thousands in advance.
"Beer is free to soldiers;Give all to the liberators" ...Under wreaths of laurelAnd small and large flags fluttering, victorious,They of the frock-coats, with clink of official chains,Are welcoming with eloquence outpouringThe liberating thousands, the victorious;In their speaking is a soaring of great phrases,Balloons of tissue paper,Hung with patriotic bunting,That rise serene into the blue,While the crowds with necks uptiltedGaze at their upward soaringTill they vanish in the blue;And each man feels the blood of lifeRumble in his ears importantWith participation in Events.
But not the fluttering of great flagsOr the brass bands blaring, victorious,Or the speeches of persons in frock coats,Who pause for the handclapping of crowds,Not the stamp of men and women dancing,Or the bubbling of beer in the taverns,—Frothy mugs free for the victorious—,Not all the trombone-droning of Events,Can drown the inextinguishible laughter of the gods.
And they hear it, the old hooded houses,The great creaking peak-gabled houses,That gossip and chuckle to each otherAcross the clattering streets;They hear it, the old great gates,The grey gates with towers,Where in the changing shrill winds of the yearsHave groaned the poles of many various-colored banners.The poplars of the high-road hear it,From their trembling twigs comes a dry laughing,As they lean towards the glare of the city.And the old hard-laughing paving-stones,Old stones weary with the wearinessOf the labor of men's footsteps,Hear it as they quake and clamourUnder the garlanded wheels of the yawning confident cannonThat are dragged victorious through the flutter of the city.
Beer is free to soldiers,Bubbles on wind-parched lips,Moistens easy kissesLavished on the liberators.
Beer is free to soldiersAll night in steaming bars,In halls delirious with dancingThat spill their music into thronging streets.
—All is free to soldiers,To the weary heroesWho have bled, and soakedThe whole earth in their sacrificial blood,Who have with their bare flesh cloggedThe crazy wheels of Juggernaut,Freed the peoples from the dragon that devoured them,That scorched with greed their pleasant fields and villages,Their quiet delightful places:
So they of the frock-coats, amid wreaths and flags victorious,To the crowds in the flaring squares,And a murmurous applauseRises like smoke to mingle in the skyWith the crashing of the bells.
But, resounding in the sky,Louder than the tramp of feet,Louder than the crash of bells,Louder than the blare of bands, victorious,Shrieks the inextinguishable laughter of the gods.
The old houses rock with it,And wag their great peaked heads,The old gates shake,And the pavings ring with it,As with the iron tramp of old fighters,As with the clank of heels of the victorious,By long ages vanquished.The spouts in the gurgling fountainsWrinkle their shiny griffin faces,Splash the rhythm in their ice-fringed basins—Of the inextinguishable laughter of the gods.
And far up into the inky sky,Where great trailing clouds stride across the world,Darkening the spired cities,And the villages folded in the hollows of hills,And the shining cincture of railways,And the pale white twining roads,Sounds with the stir of quiet monotonous breathOf men and women stretched out sleeping,Sounds with the thin wail of painOf hurt things huddled in darkness,Sounds with the victorious racketOf speeches and soldiers drinking,Sounds with the silence of the swarming dead—The inextinguishable laughter of the gods.
O I would take my pen and writeIn might of wordsA pounding dytherambAlight with teasing fires of hate,Or drone to numbness in the spellOf old loves long lived awayA drowsy vilanelle.O I would build an Ark of words,A safe ciborium where to layThe secret soul of loveliness.O I would weave of words in rhythmA gaudily wrought pallFor the curious cataphalque of fate.But my pen does otherwise.All I can write is the orange tinct with crimsonof the beaks of the gooseand of the wet webbed feet of the geesethat crackle the skimming of iceand curve their white plump necks tothe water in the manure-stained rivuletthat runs down the broad village street;and of their cantankerous dancings and hissings,with beaks tilted up, half openand necks stiffly extended;and the curé's habit blowing in the stinging windand his red globular facelike a great sausage burst in the cookingthat smilesas he takes the shovel hat off his head with a gesture,the hat held at arm's length,sweeping a broad curve, like a censor well swung;and, beyond the last grey gabled house in the village,the gaunt Christthat stretches bony arms and tortured handsto embrace the broad lands leprous with coldthe furrowed fields and the meadowsand the sprouting oatsghostly beneath the grey bitter blanket of hoarfrost.Sausheim
O I would take my pen and writeIn might of wordsA pounding dytherambAlight with teasing fires of hate,Or drone to numbness in the spellOf old loves long lived awayA drowsy vilanelle.O I would build an Ark of words,A safe ciborium where to layThe secret soul of loveliness.O I would weave of words in rhythmA gaudily wrought pallFor the curious cataphalque of fate.
But my pen does otherwise.
All I can write is the orange tinct with crimsonof the beaks of the gooseand of the wet webbed feet of the geesethat crackle the skimming of iceand curve their white plump necks tothe water in the manure-stained rivuletthat runs down the broad village street;and of their cantankerous dancings and hissings,with beaks tilted up, half openand necks stiffly extended;and the curé's habit blowing in the stinging windand his red globular facelike a great sausage burst in the cookingthat smilesas he takes the shovel hat off his head with a gesture,the hat held at arm's length,sweeping a broad curve, like a censor well swung;and, beyond the last grey gabled house in the village,the gaunt Christthat stretches bony arms and tortured handsto embrace the broad lands leprous with coldthe furrowed fields and the meadowsand the sprouting oatsghostly beneath the grey bitter blanket of hoarfrost.
Sausheim
In a hall on Olympus we held carouse,Sat dining through the warm spring night,Spilling of the crocus-colored wineGlass after brimming glass to rouseThe ghosts that dwell in books to flightOf word and image that, divine,In the draining of a glass would tearThe lies from off reality,And the world in gaudy chaos spreadNaked-new in the throbbing flareOf songs of long-fled spirits;—freeFor the wanderer devious roads to tread.Names waved as banners in our talk:Lucretius, his master, all men who to balkThe fear that shrivels us in choking rindsHave thrown their souls like pollen to the winds,Erasmus, Bruno who burned in Rome, Voltaire,All those whose lightning laughter cleaned the airOf the minds of men from the murk of fear-sprung gods,And straightened the backs bowed under the rulers' rods.A hall full of the wine and chant of old songs,Smelling of lilacs and early roses and night,Clamorous with the names and phrases of the throngsOf the garlanded dead, and with glasses pledged to the lightOf the dawning to come ...O in the morning we would goOut into the drudging world and singAnd shout down dustblinded streets, holloFrom hill to hill, and our thought flingAbroad through all the drowsy earthTo wake the sleeper and the worker and the jailedIn walls cemented of lies to mirthAnd dancing joy; laughingly unveiledFrom the sick mist of fear to run naked and leapAnd shake the nations from their snoring sleep.O in the morning we would goFantastically arrayedIn silk and scarlet braid,In rich glitter like the sun on snowWith banners of orange, vermillion, black,And jasper-handed swords,Anklets and tinkling gaudsOf topaz set twistingly, or lacLaid over with charms of demons' headsIn indigo and gold.Our going a music boldWould be, behind us the twanging threadsOf mad guitars, the wail of lutesIn wildest harmony;Lilting thumping free,Pipes and kettledrums and flutesAnd brazen braying trumpet-callsWould wake each work-drowsed townAnd shake it in laughter down,Untuning in dust the shuttered walls.O in the morning we would goWith doleful steps so dragging and slowAnd grievous mockery of woeAnd bury the old gods where they laySodden drunk with men's pain in the day,In the dawn's first new burning white rayThat would shrivel like dead leaves the sacred lies,The avengers, the graspers, the wringers of sighs,Of blood from men's work-twisted hands, from their eyesOf tears without hope ... But in the burning dayOf the dawn we would see them brooding to slay,In a great wind whirled like dead leaves away.In a hall on Olympus we held carouse,In our talk as banners waving names,Songs, phrases of the garlanded dead.Yesterday I went back to that house ...Guttered candles where were flames,Shattered dust-grey glasses insteadOf the fiery crocus-colored wine,Silence, cobwebs and a mouseNibbling nibbling the moulded breadThose spring nights dipped in vintage divineIn the dawnward chanting of our last carouse.1918——1919
In a hall on Olympus we held carouse,Sat dining through the warm spring night,Spilling of the crocus-colored wineGlass after brimming glass to rouseThe ghosts that dwell in books to flightOf word and image that, divine,In the draining of a glass would tearThe lies from off reality,And the world in gaudy chaos spreadNaked-new in the throbbing flareOf songs of long-fled spirits;—freeFor the wanderer devious roads to tread.
Names waved as banners in our talk:Lucretius, his master, all men who to balkThe fear that shrivels us in choking rindsHave thrown their souls like pollen to the winds,Erasmus, Bruno who burned in Rome, Voltaire,All those whose lightning laughter cleaned the airOf the minds of men from the murk of fear-sprung gods,And straightened the backs bowed under the rulers' rods.
A hall full of the wine and chant of old songs,Smelling of lilacs and early roses and night,Clamorous with the names and phrases of the throngsOf the garlanded dead, and with glasses pledged to the lightOf the dawning to come ...
O in the morning we would goOut into the drudging world and singAnd shout down dustblinded streets, holloFrom hill to hill, and our thought flingAbroad through all the drowsy earthTo wake the sleeper and the worker and the jailedIn walls cemented of lies to mirthAnd dancing joy; laughingly unveiledFrom the sick mist of fear to run naked and leapAnd shake the nations from their snoring sleep.
O in the morning we would goFantastically arrayedIn silk and scarlet braid,In rich glitter like the sun on snowWith banners of orange, vermillion, black,And jasper-handed swords,Anklets and tinkling gaudsOf topaz set twistingly, or lacLaid over with charms of demons' headsIn indigo and gold.Our going a music boldWould be, behind us the twanging threadsOf mad guitars, the wail of lutesIn wildest harmony;Lilting thumping free,Pipes and kettledrums and flutesAnd brazen braying trumpet-callsWould wake each work-drowsed townAnd shake it in laughter down,Untuning in dust the shuttered walls.
O in the morning we would goWith doleful steps so dragging and slowAnd grievous mockery of woeAnd bury the old gods where they laySodden drunk with men's pain in the day,In the dawn's first new burning white rayThat would shrivel like dead leaves the sacred lies,The avengers, the graspers, the wringers of sighs,Of blood from men's work-twisted hands, from their eyesOf tears without hope ... But in the burning dayOf the dawn we would see them brooding to slay,In a great wind whirled like dead leaves away.
In a hall on Olympus we held carouse,In our talk as banners waving names,Songs, phrases of the garlanded dead.
Yesterday I went back to that house ...Guttered candles where were flames,Shattered dust-grey glasses insteadOf the fiery crocus-colored wine,Silence, cobwebs and a mouseNibbling nibbling the moulded breadThose spring nights dipped in vintage divineIn the dawnward chanting of our last carouse.
1918——1919
HARD ON YOUR RUMPBUMP BUMPHARD ON YOUR RUMPBUMP BUMP
HARD ON YOUR RUMPBUMP BUMPHARD ON YOUR RUMPBUMP BUMP
O the savage munching of the long dark traincrunching up the milescrunching up the long slopes and the hillsthat crouch and sprawl through the nightlike animals asleep,gulping the winking townsand the shadow-brimmed valleyswhere lone trees twist their thorny arms.The smoke flares red and yellow;the smoke curls like a long dragon's tongueover the broken lands.The train with teeth flashinggnaws through the piecrust of hills and plainsgreedy of horizons.Alcazar de San Juan
O the savage munching of the long dark traincrunching up the milescrunching up the long slopes and the hillsthat crouch and sprawl through the nightlike animals asleep,gulping the winking townsand the shadow-brimmed valleyswhere lone trees twist their thorny arms.
The smoke flares red and yellow;the smoke curls like a long dragon's tongueover the broken lands.
The train with teeth flashinggnaws through the piecrust of hills and plainsgreedy of horizons.
Alcazar de San Juan
I invite all the gods to dineon the hard benches of my third class coachthat joggles over brown uplandsdragged at the end of a rattling train.I invite all the gods to dine,great gods and small gods, gods of airand earth and sea, and of the grey landwhere among ghostly rubbish heaps and cast-out thingslinger the strengthless dead.I invite all the gods to dine,Jehovah and Crepitus and Sebek,the slimy crocodile ... But no;wait ... I revoke the invitation.For I have seen you, crowding gods,hungry gods. You have a drab official look.You have your pockets full of bills,claims for indemnity, for incense unsniffedsince men first jumped up in their sleepand drove you out of doors.Let me instead, O djinn that sows the starsand tunes the strings of the violin,have fifty lyric poets,not pale parson folk, occasional sonneteers,but sturdy fellows who ride dolphins,who need no wine to make them drunk,who do not fear to meet red death at the meanads' handsor to have their heads at lastfloat vine-crowned on the Thracian sea.Anacreon, a partridge-wing?A sip of wine, Simonides?Algy has gobbled all the pastryand left none for the Elizabethanswho come arm in arm, singing bawdy songs,smelling of sack, from the Mermaid. Ronsard,will you eat nothing, only sniff roses?Those Anthologists have husky appetites!There's nothing left but a green bananaunless that galleon comes from Venilywith Hillyer breakfasts wrapped in sonnet-paper.But they've all brought gods with them!Avaunt! Take them away, O djinnthat paints the clouds and brings in the nightin the rumble and clatter of the traincadences out of the past ... Did you not seehow each saved a bit out of the banquetto take home and burn in quiet to his god?Madrid, Caceres, Portugal
I invite all the gods to dineon the hard benches of my third class coachthat joggles over brown uplandsdragged at the end of a rattling train.
I invite all the gods to dine,great gods and small gods, gods of airand earth and sea, and of the grey landwhere among ghostly rubbish heaps and cast-out thingslinger the strengthless dead.
I invite all the gods to dine,Jehovah and Crepitus and Sebek,the slimy crocodile ... But no;wait ... I revoke the invitation.
For I have seen you, crowding gods,hungry gods. You have a drab official look.You have your pockets full of bills,claims for indemnity, for incense unsniffedsince men first jumped up in their sleepand drove you out of doors.
Let me instead, O djinn that sows the starsand tunes the strings of the violin,have fifty lyric poets,not pale parson folk, occasional sonneteers,but sturdy fellows who ride dolphins,who need no wine to make them drunk,who do not fear to meet red death at the meanads' handsor to have their heads at lastfloat vine-crowned on the Thracian sea.
Anacreon, a partridge-wing?A sip of wine, Simonides?Algy has gobbled all the pastryand left none for the Elizabethanswho come arm in arm, singing bawdy songs,smelling of sack, from the Mermaid. Ronsard,will you eat nothing, only sniff roses?Those Anthologists have husky appetites!There's nothing left but a green bananaunless that galleon comes from Venilywith Hillyer breakfasts wrapped in sonnet-paper.
But they've all brought gods with them!Avaunt! Take them away, O djinnthat paints the clouds and brings in the nightin the rumble and clatter of the traincadences out of the past ... Did you not seehow each saved a bit out of the banquetto take home and burn in quiet to his god?
Madrid, Caceres, Portugal
Three little harlotswith artificial roses in their haireach at a window of a third-class coachon the train from Zafra to the fair.Too much powder and too much paintshining black hair.One sings to the clatter of wheelsa swaying unending songthat trails across the crimson slopesand the blue ranks of olivesand the green ranks of vines.Three little harlotson the train from Zafra to the fair.The plowman drops the traceson the shambling oxen's backsturns his head and stareswistfully after the train.The mule-boy stops his mulesshows his white teeth and shoutsa word, then urges dejectedlythe mules to the road again.The stout farmer on his horsestraightens his broad felt hat,makes the horse leap, and wavesgrandiosely after the train.Is it that the queen Astartestrides across the fallow landsto fertilize the swelling grapesamid shrieking of her corybants?Too much powder and too much paintshining black hair.Three little harlotson the train from Zafra to the fair.Sevilla——Merida
Three little harlotswith artificial roses in their haireach at a window of a third-class coachon the train from Zafra to the fair.
Too much powder and too much paintshining black hair.One sings to the clatter of wheelsa swaying unending songthat trails across the crimson slopesand the blue ranks of olivesand the green ranks of vines.Three little harlotson the train from Zafra to the fair.
The plowman drops the traceson the shambling oxen's backsturns his head and stareswistfully after the train.
The mule-boy stops his mulesshows his white teeth and shoutsa word, then urges dejectedlythe mules to the road again.
The stout farmer on his horsestraightens his broad felt hat,makes the horse leap, and wavesgrandiosely after the train.
Is it that the queen Astartestrides across the fallow landsto fertilize the swelling grapesamid shrieking of her corybants?
Too much powder and too much paintshining black hair.Three little harlotson the train from Zafra to the fair.
Sevilla——Merida
My desires have gone a-hunting,circle through the fields and sniff along the hedges,hounds that have lost the scent.Outside, behind the white swirling patterns of coalsmoke,hunched fruit-trees slide byslowly pirouetting,and poplars and aspens on tiptoepeer over each other's shouldersat the long black rattling train;colts sniff and fling their heels in airacross the dusty meadows,and the sun now and thenlooks with vague interest through the cloudsat the blonde harvest mottled with poppies,and the Joseph's cloak of fields, neatly sewn together with hedges,that hides the grisly skeletonof the elemental earth.My mad desirescircle through the fields and sniff along the hedges,hounds that have lost the scent.Misto
My desires have gone a-hunting,circle through the fields and sniff along the hedges,hounds that have lost the scent.
Outside, behind the white swirling patterns of coalsmoke,hunched fruit-trees slide byslowly pirouetting,and poplars and aspens on tiptoepeer over each other's shouldersat the long black rattling train;colts sniff and fling their heels in airacross the dusty meadows,and the sun now and thenlooks with vague interest through the cloudsat the blonde harvest mottled with poppies,and the Joseph's cloak of fields, neatly sewn together with hedges,that hides the grisly skeletonof the elemental earth.
My mad desirescircle through the fields and sniff along the hedges,hounds that have lost the scent.
Misto
The street is full of drumsand shuffle of slow moving feet.Above the roofs in the shaking towersthe bells yawn.The street is full of drumsand shuffle of slow moving feet.The flanks of the houses glowwith the warm glow of candles,and above the upturned faces,crowned, robed in a cone-shaped robeof vast dark folds glittering with gold,swaying on the necks of men, swayingwith the strong throb of drums,haltingly she advances.What manner of woman are you,borne in triumph on the necks of men,you who look bitterlyat the dead man on your knees,while your foot in an embroidered slippertramples the new moon?Haltingly she advances,swaying above the upturned facesand the shuffling feet.In the dark unthought-of yearsmen carried you thusdown streets where drums throbbedand torches flared,bore you triumphantly,mourner and queen,followed you with shuffling feetand upturned faces.You it was who satin the swirl of your robesat the granary door,and brought the orange maizeblack with mildewor fat with milk, to the harvest:and made the ewesto swell with twin lambs,or bleating, to sicken among the nibbling flock.You wept the dead youthlaid lank and white in the empty hut,sat scarring your cheeks with the dark-cowled women.You brought the women safethrough the shrieks and the shuddering painof the birth of a child;and, when the sprouting springpoured fire in the blood of the young men,and made the he-goats dance stiff-leggedin the sloping thyme-scented pastures,you were the full-lipped wanton enchantresswho led on moonless nights,when it was very dark in the high valleys,the boys from the villagesto find the herd-girls among the munching sweet-breathed cattlebeside their fires of thyme-sticks,on their soft beds of sweet-fern.Many names have they called you,Lady of laughing and weeping,shuffling after you, borneon the necks of men down town streetswith drums and red torches:dolorous one, weeping the deadyouth of the year ever dying,or full-breasted empress of summer,Lady of the Corybantsand the headlong routsthat maddened with cymbals and shoutingthe hot nights of amorous languorwhen the gardens swooned under the scentof jessamine and nard.You were the slim-waisted Lady of Doves,you were Ishtar and Ashtaroth,for whom the Canaanite girlsgave up their earrings and anklets and their own slender bodies,you were the dolorous Isis,and Aphrodite.It was you who on the Syrian shoremourned the brown limbs of the boy Adonis.You were the queen of the crescent moon,the Lady of Ephesus,giver of riches,for whom the great templereeked with burning and spices.And now in the late bitter years,your head is bowed with bitterness;across your knees lies the lank bodyof the Crucified.Rockets shriek and roar and burstagainst the velvet sky;the wind flutters the candle-flamesabove the long white slanting candles.Swaying above the upturned facesto the strong throb of drums,borne in triumph on the necks of men,crowned, robed in a cone-shaped robeof vast dark folds glittering with goldhaltingly, through the pulsing streets,advances Mary, Virgin of Pain.Granada
The street is full of drumsand shuffle of slow moving feet.Above the roofs in the shaking towersthe bells yawn.
The street is full of drumsand shuffle of slow moving feet.The flanks of the houses glowwith the warm glow of candles,and above the upturned faces,crowned, robed in a cone-shaped robeof vast dark folds glittering with gold,swaying on the necks of men, swayingwith the strong throb of drums,haltingly she advances.
What manner of woman are you,borne in triumph on the necks of men,you who look bitterlyat the dead man on your knees,while your foot in an embroidered slippertramples the new moon?
Haltingly she advances,swaying above the upturned facesand the shuffling feet.
In the dark unthought-of yearsmen carried you thusdown streets where drums throbbedand torches flared,bore you triumphantly,mourner and queen,followed you with shuffling feetand upturned faces.You it was who satin the swirl of your robesat the granary door,and brought the orange maizeblack with mildewor fat with milk, to the harvest:and made the ewesto swell with twin lambs,or bleating, to sicken among the nibbling flock.You wept the dead youthlaid lank and white in the empty hut,sat scarring your cheeks with the dark-cowled women.You brought the women safethrough the shrieks and the shuddering painof the birth of a child;and, when the sprouting springpoured fire in the blood of the young men,and made the he-goats dance stiff-leggedin the sloping thyme-scented pastures,you were the full-lipped wanton enchantresswho led on moonless nights,when it was very dark in the high valleys,the boys from the villagesto find the herd-girls among the munching sweet-breathed cattlebeside their fires of thyme-sticks,on their soft beds of sweet-fern.
Many names have they called you,Lady of laughing and weeping,shuffling after you, borneon the necks of men down town streetswith drums and red torches:dolorous one, weeping the deadyouth of the year ever dying,or full-breasted empress of summer,Lady of the Corybantsand the headlong routsthat maddened with cymbals and shoutingthe hot nights of amorous languorwhen the gardens swooned under the scentof jessamine and nard.You were the slim-waisted Lady of Doves,you were Ishtar and Ashtaroth,for whom the Canaanite girlsgave up their earrings and anklets and their own slender bodies,you were the dolorous Isis,and Aphrodite.It was you who on the Syrian shoremourned the brown limbs of the boy Adonis.You were the queen of the crescent moon,the Lady of Ephesus,giver of riches,for whom the great templereeked with burning and spices.And now in the late bitter years,your head is bowed with bitterness;across your knees lies the lank bodyof the Crucified.
Rockets shriek and roar and burstagainst the velvet sky;the wind flutters the candle-flamesabove the long white slanting candles.
Swaying above the upturned facesto the strong throb of drums,borne in triumph on the necks of men,crowned, robed in a cone-shaped robeof vast dark folds glittering with goldhaltingly, through the pulsing streets,advances Mary, Virgin of Pain.
Granada
It would be fun, you said,sitting two years ago at this same table,at this same white marble café table,if people only knew what fun it would beto laugh the hatred out of soldiers' eyes ...—If I drink beer with my enemy,you said, and put your lips to the long glass,and give him what he wants, if he wants it so hardthat he would kill me for it,I rather think he'd give it back to me—You laughed, and stretched your long legs out across the floor.I wonder in what mood you died,out there in that great muddy butcher-shop,on that meaningless dicing-table of death.Did you laugh aloud at the futility,and drink death down in a long draught,as you drank your beer two years agoat this same white marble café table?Or had the darkness drowned you?Café Oro del RhinPlaza de Santa Ana
It would be fun, you said,sitting two years ago at this same table,at this same white marble café table,if people only knew what fun it would beto laugh the hatred out of soldiers' eyes ...
—If I drink beer with my enemy,you said, and put your lips to the long glass,and give him what he wants, if he wants it so hardthat he would kill me for it,I rather think he'd give it back to me—You laughed, and stretched your long legs out across the floor.
I wonder in what mood you died,out there in that great muddy butcher-shop,on that meaningless dicing-table of death.
Did you laugh aloud at the futility,and drink death down in a long draught,as you drank your beer two years agoat this same white marble café table?Or had the darkness drowned you?
Café Oro del RhinPlaza de Santa Ana
Down the roadagainst the blue hazethat hangs before the great ribbed forms of the mountainspeople come home from the fields;they pass a moment in reliefagainst the amber frieze of the sunsetbefore turning the bendtowards the twinkling smoke-breathing village.A boy in sandals with brown dusty legsand brown cheeks where the flush of eveninghas left its stain of wine.A donkey with a jingling belland ears askew.Old women with water jarsof red burnt earth.Men bent double under burdens of faggotsthat trail behind them the fragranceof scorched uplands.A child tugging at the end of a stringa much inflated sow.A slender girl who presses to her breastbig bluefrilled cabbages.And a shepherd in the clinging rags of his cloakwho walks with lithe unhurried stridebehind the crowded backs of his flock.The road is emptyonly the swaying tufts of oliveboughsagainst the fading sky.Down on the steep hillsidea man still follows the yokeof lumbering oxenplowing the heavy crimson-stained soilwhile the chill silver mistssteal up about him.I stand in the empty roadand feel in my arms and thighsthe strain of his bodyas he leans far to one sideand wrenches the plow from the furrow,feel my blood throb in time to his slow careful stepsas he follows the plow in the furrow.Red earthgiver of all thingsof the yellow grain and the oiland the wine to all gods sacredof the fragrant sticks that crackle in the hearthand the crisp swaying grassthat swells to dripping the udders of the cows,of the jessamine the girls stick in their hairwhen they walk in twos and threes in the moonlight,and of the pallid autumnal crocuses ...are there no fields yet to plow?Are there no fields yet to plowwhere with sweat and straining of musclesgood things may be wrung from the earthand brown limbs going home tired through the evening?Lanjaron
Down the roadagainst the blue hazethat hangs before the great ribbed forms of the mountainspeople come home from the fields;they pass a moment in reliefagainst the amber frieze of the sunsetbefore turning the bendtowards the twinkling smoke-breathing village.
A boy in sandals with brown dusty legsand brown cheeks where the flush of eveninghas left its stain of wine.A donkey with a jingling belland ears askew.Old women with water jarsof red burnt earth.Men bent double under burdens of faggotsthat trail behind them the fragranceof scorched uplands.A child tugging at the end of a stringa much inflated sow.A slender girl who presses to her breastbig bluefrilled cabbages.And a shepherd in the clinging rags of his cloakwho walks with lithe unhurried stridebehind the crowded backs of his flock.
The road is emptyonly the swaying tufts of oliveboughsagainst the fading sky.
Down on the steep hillsidea man still follows the yokeof lumbering oxenplowing the heavy crimson-stained soilwhile the chill silver mistssteal up about him.
I stand in the empty roadand feel in my arms and thighsthe strain of his bodyas he leans far to one sideand wrenches the plow from the furrow,feel my blood throb in time to his slow careful stepsas he follows the plow in the furrow.
Red earthgiver of all thingsof the yellow grain and the oiland the wine to all gods sacredof the fragrant sticks that crackle in the hearthand the crisp swaying grassthat swells to dripping the udders of the cows,of the jessamine the girls stick in their hairwhen they walk in twos and threes in the moonlight,and of the pallid autumnal crocuses ...are there no fields yet to plow?
Are there no fields yet to plowwhere with sweat and straining of musclesgood things may be wrung from the earthand brown limbs going home tired through the evening?
Lanjaron
O such a night for scaling garden walls;to push the rose shoots silently asideand pause a moment where the water fallsinto the fountain, softly troubling the widebridge of stars tremblingly mirrored thereterror-pale and shaking as the real stars shakein crystal fear lest the rustle of silence breakwith a watchdog's barking.O to scale the garden wall and flingmy life into the bowl of an adventure,stake on the silver dice the past and futureforget the odds and lying in the garden singin time to the flutter of the waiting starsmadness of love for the slender ivory whiteof her body hidden among dark silks whereis languidest the attar weighted air.To drink in one strong jessamine scented draughtsadness of flesh, twining madness of the night.O such a night for scaling garden walls;yet I lie alone in my narrow bedand stare at the blank walls, forever afraid,of a watchdog's barking.Granada
O such a night for scaling garden walls;to push the rose shoots silently asideand pause a moment where the water fallsinto the fountain, softly troubling the widebridge of stars tremblingly mirrored thereterror-pale and shaking as the real stars shakein crystal fear lest the rustle of silence breakwith a watchdog's barking.
O to scale the garden wall and flingmy life into the bowl of an adventure,stake on the silver dice the past and futureforget the odds and lying in the garden singin time to the flutter of the waiting starsmadness of love for the slender ivory whiteof her body hidden among dark silks whereis languidest the attar weighted air.
To drink in one strong jessamine scented draughtsadness of flesh, twining madness of the night.
O such a night for scaling garden walls;yet I lie alone in my narrow bedand stare at the blank walls, forever afraid,of a watchdog's barking.
Granada
Rain-swelled the clouds of winterdrag themselves like purple swine across the plain.On the trees the leaves hang drippingfast dripping away all the warm glamourall the ceremonial paint of gorgeous bountiful autumn.The black wet boles are vacant and dead.Among the trampled leaves already mudrot the husks of the rich nuts. On the hillsthe snow has frozen the last pale crocusesand the winds have robbed the smell of the thyme.Down the wet streets of the townfrom doors where the light spills out orangeover the shining irregular cobblesand dances in ripples on gurgling gutters;sounds the zambomba.In the room beside the slanting streetround the tray of glowing coalsin their stained blue clothes, dustywith the dust of workshops and factories,the men and boys sit quiet;their large hands dangle idlyor rest open on their kneesand they talk in soft tired voices.Crosslegged in a corner a child with brown handssounds the zambomba.Outside down the purple streetstopping sometimes at a door, breathing deepthe heady wine of sunset, stride with clattering stepsthose to whom the time will never comeof work-stiffened unrestless hands.The rain-swelled clouds of winter roamlike a herd of swine over the town and the dark plain.The wineshops full of shuffling and talk, tanned facesbright eyes, moist lips moulding desiresblow breaths of strong wine in the faces of passers-by.There are guards in the storehouse doorswhere are gathered the rich fruits of autumn, the grainthe sweet figs and raisins; sullen blood tingling to madnessthey stride by who have not reaped.Sounds the zambomba.Albaicin
Rain-swelled the clouds of winterdrag themselves like purple swine across the plain.On the trees the leaves hang drippingfast dripping away all the warm glamourall the ceremonial paint of gorgeous bountiful autumn.
The black wet boles are vacant and dead.Among the trampled leaves already mudrot the husks of the rich nuts. On the hillsthe snow has frozen the last pale crocusesand the winds have robbed the smell of the thyme.
Down the wet streets of the townfrom doors where the light spills out orangeover the shining irregular cobblesand dances in ripples on gurgling gutters;sounds the zambomba.
In the room beside the slanting streetround the tray of glowing coalsin their stained blue clothes, dustywith the dust of workshops and factories,the men and boys sit quiet;their large hands dangle idlyor rest open on their kneesand they talk in soft tired voices.Crosslegged in a corner a child with brown handssounds the zambomba.
Outside down the purple streetstopping sometimes at a door, breathing deepthe heady wine of sunset, stride with clattering stepsthose to whom the time will never comeof work-stiffened unrestless hands.
The rain-swelled clouds of winter roamlike a herd of swine over the town and the dark plain.
The wineshops full of shuffling and talk, tanned facesbright eyes, moist lips moulding desiresblow breaths of strong wine in the faces of passers-by.
There are guards in the storehouse doorswhere are gathered the rich fruits of autumn, the grainthe sweet figs and raisins; sullen blood tingling to madnessthey stride by who have not reaped.Sounds the zambomba.
Albaicin
The train throbs doggedlyover the gleaming railsfleeing the light-green flanks of hillsdappled with alternate shadow of clouds,fleeing the white froth of orchards,of clusters of apples and cherries in flower,fleeing the wide lush meadows,wealthy with cowslips,and the tramping horses and backward-strained bodies of plowmen,fleeing the gleam of the sky in puddles and glittering watersthe train throbs doggedlyover the ceaseless railsspurning the verdant graceof April's dainty apparel;so do my desiresspurn those things which are behindin hunger of horizons.Rapido: Valencia——Barcelona1919——1920
The train throbs doggedlyover the gleaming railsfleeing the light-green flanks of hillsdappled with alternate shadow of clouds,fleeing the white froth of orchards,of clusters of apples and cherries in flower,fleeing the wide lush meadows,wealthy with cowslips,and the tramping horses and backward-strained bodies of plowmen,fleeing the gleam of the sky in puddles and glittering watersthe train throbs doggedlyover the ceaseless railsspurning the verdant graceof April's dainty apparel;so do my desiresspurn those things which are behindin hunger of horizons.
Rapido: Valencia——Barcelona1919——1920
See how the frail white pagodas of blossomstand up on the great green hillsof the chestnutsand how the sun has burned the wintry murkand all the stale odor of anguishout of the skyso that the swollen clouds bellying with sailcan parade in pomp like white galleons.And they move the slow plumed cloudsabove the spidery grey webs of citiesabove fields full of golden chimeof cowslipsabove warbling woods where the ditchesare wistfully patinedwith primroses pale as the new moonabove hills all golden with gorseand gardens frothedto the brim of their grey stone wallswith apple bloom, cherry bloom,and the raspberry-stained bloom of peaches and almonds.So do the plumed clouds sailswelling with satiny pomp of paradetowards somewhere far awaywhere in a sparkling silver seafull of little flakes of indigothe great salt waves have heaved and stirredinto blossoming of foam,and lifted on the rush of the warm windtowards the gardens and the spring-mad cities of the shoreAphrodite Aphrodite is reborn.And even in this city parkgalled with iron railsshrill with the clanging of ironbound wheelson the pavings of the unquiet streets,little children run and dance and singwith spring-madness in the sun,and the frail white pagodas of blossomstand up on the great green hillsof the chestnutsand all their tiers of tiny gargoyle facesstick out gold and red-striped tonguesin derision of the silly things of men.Jardin du Luxembourg
See how the frail white pagodas of blossomstand up on the great green hillsof the chestnutsand how the sun has burned the wintry murkand all the stale odor of anguishout of the skyso that the swollen clouds bellying with sailcan parade in pomp like white galleons.
And they move the slow plumed cloudsabove the spidery grey webs of citiesabove fields full of golden chimeof cowslipsabove warbling woods where the ditchesare wistfully patinedwith primroses pale as the new moonabove hills all golden with gorseand gardens frothedto the brim of their grey stone wallswith apple bloom, cherry bloom,and the raspberry-stained bloom of peaches and almonds.
So do the plumed clouds sailswelling with satiny pomp of paradetowards somewhere far awaywhere in a sparkling silver seafull of little flakes of indigothe great salt waves have heaved and stirredinto blossoming of foam,and lifted on the rush of the warm windtowards the gardens and the spring-mad cities of the shoreAphrodite Aphrodite is reborn.
And even in this city parkgalled with iron railsshrill with the clanging of ironbound wheelson the pavings of the unquiet streets,little children run and dance and singwith spring-madness in the sun,and the frail white pagodas of blossomstand up on the great green hillsof the chestnutsand all their tiers of tiny gargoyle facesstick out gold and red-striped tonguesin derision of the silly things of men.
Jardin du Luxembourg
The shadows make strange streaks and mottled arabesquesof violet on the apricot-tinged walkswhere the thin sunlight lieslike flower-petals.On the cool wind there is a fragranceindefinableof strawberries crushed in deep woods.And the flushed sunlight,the wistful patterns of shadowon gravel walks between tall elmsand broad-leaved lindens,the stretch of country,yellow and green,full of little particolored houses,and the faint intangible sky,have lumped my soggy misery,like clay in the brown deft hands of a potter,and moulded a song of it.Saint Germain-en-Laye
The shadows make strange streaks and mottled arabesquesof violet on the apricot-tinged walkswhere the thin sunlight lieslike flower-petals.
On the cool wind there is a fragranceindefinableof strawberries crushed in deep woods.
And the flushed sunlight,the wistful patterns of shadowon gravel walks between tall elmsand broad-leaved lindens,the stretch of country,yellow and green,full of little particolored houses,and the faint intangible sky,have lumped my soggy misery,like clay in the brown deft hands of a potter,and moulded a song of it.
Saint Germain-en-Laye
In the dark the river spins,Laughs and ripples never ceasing,Swells to gurgle under arches,Swishes past the bows of barges,in its haste to swirl awayFrom the stone walls of the cityThat has lamps that weight the eddiesDown with snaky silver glitter,As it flies it calls me with itThrough the meadows to the sea.I close the door on it, draw the bolts,Climb the stairs to my silent room;But through the window that swings openComes again its shuttle-song,Spinning love and night and madness,Madness of the spring at sea.
In the dark the river spins,Laughs and ripples never ceasing,Swells to gurgle under arches,Swishes past the bows of barges,in its haste to swirl awayFrom the stone walls of the cityThat has lamps that weight the eddiesDown with snaky silver glitter,As it flies it calls me with itThrough the meadows to the sea.
I close the door on it, draw the bolts,Climb the stairs to my silent room;But through the window that swings openComes again its shuttle-song,Spinning love and night and madness,Madness of the spring at sea.
The streets are full of lilacslilacs in boys' buttonholeslilacs at women's waists;arms full of lilacs, people trail behind them through the moist nightlong swirls of fragrance,fragrance of gardensfragrance of hedgerows where they have wanderedall the May daywhere the lovers have held each others handsand lavished vermillion kissesunder the portent of the swaying plumesof the funereal lilacs.The streets are full of lilacsthat trail long swirls and eddies of fragrancearabesques of fragrancelike the arabesques that form and fadein the fleeting ripples of the jade-green river.Porte Maillot
The streets are full of lilacslilacs in boys' buttonholeslilacs at women's waists;arms full of lilacs, people trail behind them through the moist nightlong swirls of fragrance,fragrance of gardensfragrance of hedgerows where they have wanderedall the May daywhere the lovers have held each others handsand lavished vermillion kissesunder the portent of the swaying plumesof the funereal lilacs.
The streets are full of lilacsthat trail long swirls and eddies of fragrancearabesques of fragrancelike the arabesques that form and fadein the fleeting ripples of the jade-green river.
Porte Maillot
As a gardener in a pondsplendid with lotus and Indian nenupharwades to his waist in the warm black waterstooping to this side and that to cull the snaky stemsof the floating white glittering liliesgroping to break the harsh stems of the imperious lotuslifting the huge flowers highin a cluster in his handtill they droop against the moon;so I grope through the streets of the nightculling out of the poolof the spring-reeking, rain-reeking citygestures and faces.Place St. Michel
As a gardener in a pondsplendid with lotus and Indian nenupharwades to his waist in the warm black waterstooping to this side and that to cull the snaky stemsof the floating white glittering liliesgroping to break the harsh stems of the imperious lotuslifting the huge flowers highin a cluster in his handtill they droop against the moon;so I grope through the streets of the nightculling out of the poolof the spring-reeking, rain-reeking citygestures and faces.
Place St. Michel
This is a gardenwhere through the russet mist of clustered treesand strewn November leaves,they crunch with vainglorious heelsof ancient vermillionthe dry dead of spent summer's greens,and stalk with mincing sceptic stepsand sound of snuffboxes snappingto the capping of an epigram,in fluffy attar-scented wigs ...the exquisite Augustans.Tuileries
This is a gardenwhere through the russet mist of clustered treesand strewn November leaves,they crunch with vainglorious heelsof ancient vermillionthe dry dead of spent summer's greens,and stalk with mincing sceptic stepsand sound of snuffboxes snappingto the capping of an epigram,in fluffy attar-scented wigs ...the exquisite Augustans.
Tuileries