Shepassed and left no quiver in the veins, who nowMoving among the trees, and clingingin the air she severed,Fanning the grass she walked on then, endures:Grey olive leaves beneath a rain-cold sky.
Shepassed and left no quiver in the veins, who nowMoving among the trees, and clingingin the air she severed,Fanning the grass she walked on then, endures:Grey olive leaves beneath a rain-cold sky.
Shepassed and left no quiver in the veins, who nowMoving among the trees, and clingingin the air she severed,Fanning the grass she walked on then, endures:
Grey olive leaves beneath a rain-cold sky.
Ohelplessfew in my country,O remnant enslaved!Artists broken against her,A-stray, lost in the villages,Mistrusted, spoken-against,Lovers of beauty, starved,Thwarted with systems,Helpless against the control;You who can not wear yourselves outBy persisting to successes,You who can only speak,Who can not steel yourselves into reiteration;You of the finer sense,Broken against false knowledge,You who can know at first hand,Hated, shut in, mistrusted:Take thought:I have weathered the storm,I have beaten out my exile.
Ohelplessfew in my country,O remnant enslaved!Artists broken against her,A-stray, lost in the villages,Mistrusted, spoken-against,Lovers of beauty, starved,Thwarted with systems,Helpless against the control;You who can not wear yourselves outBy persisting to successes,You who can only speak,Who can not steel yourselves into reiteration;You of the finer sense,Broken against false knowledge,You who can know at first hand,Hated, shut in, mistrusted:Take thought:I have weathered the storm,I have beaten out my exile.
Ohelplessfew in my country,O remnant enslaved!
Artists broken against her,A-stray, lost in the villages,Mistrusted, spoken-against,
Lovers of beauty, starved,Thwarted with systems,Helpless against the control;
You who can not wear yourselves outBy persisting to successes,You who can only speak,Who can not steel yourselves into reiteration;
You of the finer sense,Broken against false knowledge,You who can know at first hand,Hated, shut in, mistrusted:
Take thought:I have weathered the storm,I have beaten out my exile.
Thelittle Millwins attend the Russian Ballet.The mauve and greenish souls of the little MillwinsWere seen lying along the upper seatsLike so many unused boas.The turbulent and undisciplined host of art students—The rigorous deputation from “Slade”—Was before them.With arms exalted, with fore-armsCrossed in great futuristic X’s, the art studentsExulted, they beheld the splendours ofCleopatra.And the little Millwins beheld these things;With their large and anæmic eyes they looked out upon this configuration.Let us therefore mention the fact,For it seems to us worthy of record.
Thelittle Millwins attend the Russian Ballet.The mauve and greenish souls of the little MillwinsWere seen lying along the upper seatsLike so many unused boas.The turbulent and undisciplined host of art students—The rigorous deputation from “Slade”—Was before them.With arms exalted, with fore-armsCrossed in great futuristic X’s, the art studentsExulted, they beheld the splendours ofCleopatra.And the little Millwins beheld these things;With their large and anæmic eyes they looked out upon this configuration.Let us therefore mention the fact,For it seems to us worthy of record.
Thelittle Millwins attend the Russian Ballet.The mauve and greenish souls of the little MillwinsWere seen lying along the upper seatsLike so many unused boas.
The turbulent and undisciplined host of art students—The rigorous deputation from “Slade”—Was before them.With arms exalted, with fore-armsCrossed in great futuristic X’s, the art studentsExulted, they beheld the splendours ofCleopatra.
And the little Millwins beheld these things;With their large and anæmic eyes they looked out upon this configuration.
Let us therefore mention the fact,For it seems to us worthy of record.
Come, my songs, let us express our baser passions,Let us express our envy of the man with a steady joband no worry about the future.You are very idle, my songs.I fear you will come to a bad end.You stand about in the streets,You loiter at the corners and bus-stopsYou do next to nothing at all.You do not even express our inner nobilities,You will come to a very bad end.And I?I have gone half cracked,I have talked to you so much thatI almost see you about me,Insolent little beasts, shameless, devoid of clothing!But you, newest song of the lot,You are not old enough to have done much mischief,I will get you a green coat out of ChinaWith dragons worked upon it,I will get you the scarlet silk trousersFrom the statue of the infant Christ at Santa Maria Novella,Lest they say we are lacking in taste,Or that there is no caste in this family.
Come, my songs, let us express our baser passions,Let us express our envy of the man with a steady joband no worry about the future.You are very idle, my songs.I fear you will come to a bad end.You stand about in the streets,You loiter at the corners and bus-stopsYou do next to nothing at all.You do not even express our inner nobilities,You will come to a very bad end.And I?I have gone half cracked,I have talked to you so much thatI almost see you about me,Insolent little beasts, shameless, devoid of clothing!But you, newest song of the lot,You are not old enough to have done much mischief,I will get you a green coat out of ChinaWith dragons worked upon it,I will get you the scarlet silk trousersFrom the statue of the infant Christ at Santa Maria Novella,Lest they say we are lacking in taste,Or that there is no caste in this family.
Come, my songs, let us express our baser passions,Let us express our envy of the man with a steady joband no worry about the future.You are very idle, my songs.I fear you will come to a bad end.You stand about in the streets,You loiter at the corners and bus-stopsYou do next to nothing at all.
You do not even express our inner nobilities,You will come to a very bad end.
And I?I have gone half cracked,I have talked to you so much thatI almost see you about me,Insolent little beasts, shameless, devoid of clothing!
But you, newest song of the lot,You are not old enough to have done much mischief,I will get you a green coat out of ChinaWith dragons worked upon it,I will get you the scarlet silk trousersFrom the statue of the infant Christ at Santa Maria Novella,Lest they say we are lacking in taste,Or that there is no caste in this family.
Restme with Chinese colours,For I think the glass is evil.
Restme with Chinese colours,For I think the glass is evil.
Restme with Chinese colours,For I think the glass is evil.
The wind moves above the wheat—With a silver crashing,A thin war of metal.I have known the golden disc,I have seen it melting above me.I have known the stone-bright place,The hall of clear colours.
The wind moves above the wheat—With a silver crashing,A thin war of metal.I have known the golden disc,I have seen it melting above me.I have known the stone-bright place,The hall of clear colours.
The wind moves above the wheat—With a silver crashing,A thin war of metal.
I have known the golden disc,I have seen it melting above me.I have known the stone-bright place,The hall of clear colours.
O glass subtly evil, O confusion of colours!O light bound and bent in, O soul of the captive,Why am I warned? Why am I sent away?Why is your glitter full of curious mistrust?O glass subtle and cunning, O powdery gold!O filaments of amber, two-faced iridescence!
O glass subtly evil, O confusion of colours!O light bound and bent in, O soul of the captive,Why am I warned? Why am I sent away?Why is your glitter full of curious mistrust?O glass subtle and cunning, O powdery gold!O filaments of amber, two-faced iridescence!
O glass subtly evil, O confusion of colours!O light bound and bent in, O soul of the captive,Why am I warned? Why am I sent away?Why is your glitter full of curious mistrust?O glass subtle and cunning, O powdery gold!O filaments of amber, two-faced iridescence!
Go, my songs, seek your praise from the young and from the intolerant,Move among the lovers of perfection alone.Seek ever to stand in the hard Sophoclean lightAnd take your wounds from it gladly.
Go, my songs, seek your praise from the young and from the intolerant,Move among the lovers of perfection alone.Seek ever to stand in the hard Sophoclean lightAnd take your wounds from it gladly.
Go, my songs, seek your praise from the young and from the intolerant,Move among the lovers of perfection alone.Seek ever to stand in the hard Sophoclean lightAnd take your wounds from it gladly.
Howmany will come after mesinging as well as I sing, none better;Telling the heart of their truthas I have taught them to tell it;Fruit of my seed,O my unnameable children.Know then that I loved you from afore-time,Clear speakers, naked in the sun, untrammelled.
Howmany will come after mesinging as well as I sing, none better;Telling the heart of their truthas I have taught them to tell it;Fruit of my seed,O my unnameable children.Know then that I loved you from afore-time,Clear speakers, naked in the sun, untrammelled.
Howmany will come after mesinging as well as I sing, none better;Telling the heart of their truthas I have taught them to tell it;Fruit of my seed,O my unnameable children.
Know then that I loved you from afore-time,Clear speakers, naked in the sun, untrammelled.
Evenin my dreams you have denied yourself to meAnd sent me only your handmaids.
Evenin my dreams you have denied yourself to meAnd sent me only your handmaids.
Evenin my dreams you have denied yourself to meAnd sent me only your handmaids.
Thevery small children in patched clothing,Being smitten with an unusual wisdom,Stopped in their play as she passed themAnd cried up from their cobbles:Guarda! Ahi, guarda! ch’ è be’a![A]But three years after thisI heard the young Dante, whose last name I do not know—For there are, in Sirmione, twenty-eight youngDantes and thirty-four Catulli;And there had been a great catch of sardines,And his eldersWere packing them in the great wooden boxesFor the market in Brescia, and heLeapt about, snatching at the bright fishAnd getting in both of their ways;And in vain they commanded him tosta fermo!And when they would not let him arrangeThe fish in the boxesHe stroked those which were already arranged,Murmuring for his own satisfactionThis identical phrase:Ch’ è be’a.And at this I was mildly abashed.
Thevery small children in patched clothing,Being smitten with an unusual wisdom,Stopped in their play as she passed themAnd cried up from their cobbles:Guarda! Ahi, guarda! ch’ è be’a![A]But three years after thisI heard the young Dante, whose last name I do not know—For there are, in Sirmione, twenty-eight youngDantes and thirty-four Catulli;And there had been a great catch of sardines,And his eldersWere packing them in the great wooden boxesFor the market in Brescia, and heLeapt about, snatching at the bright fishAnd getting in both of their ways;And in vain they commanded him tosta fermo!And when they would not let him arrangeThe fish in the boxesHe stroked those which were already arranged,Murmuring for his own satisfactionThis identical phrase:Ch’ è be’a.And at this I was mildly abashed.
Thevery small children in patched clothing,Being smitten with an unusual wisdom,Stopped in their play as she passed themAnd cried up from their cobbles:Guarda! Ahi, guarda! ch’ è be’a![A]
But three years after thisI heard the young Dante, whose last name I do not know—For there are, in Sirmione, twenty-eight youngDantes and thirty-four Catulli;
And there had been a great catch of sardines,And his eldersWere packing them in the great wooden boxesFor the market in Brescia, and heLeapt about, snatching at the bright fishAnd getting in both of their ways;And in vain they commanded him tosta fermo!And when they would not let him arrangeThe fish in the boxesHe stroked those which were already arranged,Murmuring for his own satisfactionThis identical phrase:Ch’ è be’a.
And at this I was mildly abashed.
[A]Bella.
[A]Bella.
Aus meinen grossen SchmerzenMach’ ich die kleinen Lieder.
Aus meinen grossen SchmerzenMach’ ich die kleinen Lieder.
Aus meinen grossen SchmerzenMach’ ich die kleinen Lieder.
Thegood BellairesDo not understand the conduct of this world’s affairs.In fact they understood them so badlyThat they have had to cross the Channel.Nine lawyers, four counsels, five judges and three proctors of the King,Together with the respective wives, husbands, sisters and heterogeneous connections of the good Bellaires,Met to discuss their affairs;But the good Bellaires have so little understood their affairsThat now there is no one at allWho can understand any affair of theirs. YetFourteen hunters still eat in the stables ofThe good Squire Bellaire;But these may not suffer attainder,For they may not belong to the good Squire BellaireBut to his wife.On the contrary, if they do not belong to his wife,He will pleadA “freedom from attainder”For twelve horses and also for twelve boarhoundsFrom Charles the Fourth;And a further freedom for the remainderOf horses, from Henry the Fourth.But the judges,Being free of mediæval scholarship,Will pay no attention to this,And there will be only the more confusion,Replevin, estoppel, espavin and what not.Nine lawyers, four counsels, etc.,Met to discuss their affairs,But the sole result was billsFrom lawyers to whom no one was indebted,And even the lawyersWere uncertain who was supposed to be indebted to them.Wherefore the good Squire BellaireResides now at Agde and Biaucaire.To Carcassonne, Pui, and AlaisHe fareth from day to day,Or takes the sea airBetween MarseillesAnd Beziers.And for all this I have considerable regret,For the good BellairesAre very charming people.
Thegood BellairesDo not understand the conduct of this world’s affairs.In fact they understood them so badlyThat they have had to cross the Channel.Nine lawyers, four counsels, five judges and three proctors of the King,Together with the respective wives, husbands, sisters and heterogeneous connections of the good Bellaires,Met to discuss their affairs;But the good Bellaires have so little understood their affairsThat now there is no one at allWho can understand any affair of theirs. YetFourteen hunters still eat in the stables ofThe good Squire Bellaire;But these may not suffer attainder,For they may not belong to the good Squire BellaireBut to his wife.On the contrary, if they do not belong to his wife,He will pleadA “freedom from attainder”For twelve horses and also for twelve boarhoundsFrom Charles the Fourth;And a further freedom for the remainderOf horses, from Henry the Fourth.But the judges,Being free of mediæval scholarship,Will pay no attention to this,And there will be only the more confusion,Replevin, estoppel, espavin and what not.Nine lawyers, four counsels, etc.,Met to discuss their affairs,But the sole result was billsFrom lawyers to whom no one was indebted,And even the lawyersWere uncertain who was supposed to be indebted to them.Wherefore the good Squire BellaireResides now at Agde and Biaucaire.To Carcassonne, Pui, and AlaisHe fareth from day to day,Or takes the sea airBetween MarseillesAnd Beziers.And for all this I have considerable regret,For the good BellairesAre very charming people.
Thegood BellairesDo not understand the conduct of this world’s affairs.In fact they understood them so badlyThat they have had to cross the Channel.
Nine lawyers, four counsels, five judges and three proctors of the King,Together with the respective wives, husbands, sisters and heterogeneous connections of the good Bellaires,Met to discuss their affairs;But the good Bellaires have so little understood their affairsThat now there is no one at allWho can understand any affair of theirs. YetFourteen hunters still eat in the stables ofThe good Squire Bellaire;But these may not suffer attainder,For they may not belong to the good Squire BellaireBut to his wife.On the contrary, if they do not belong to his wife,He will pleadA “freedom from attainder”For twelve horses and also for twelve boarhoundsFrom Charles the Fourth;And a further freedom for the remainderOf horses, from Henry the Fourth.But the judges,Being free of mediæval scholarship,Will pay no attention to this,And there will be only the more confusion,Replevin, estoppel, espavin and what not.
Nine lawyers, four counsels, etc.,Met to discuss their affairs,But the sole result was billsFrom lawyers to whom no one was indebted,And even the lawyersWere uncertain who was supposed to be indebted to them.
Wherefore the good Squire BellaireResides now at Agde and Biaucaire.To Carcassonne, Pui, and AlaisHe fareth from day to day,Or takes the sea airBetween MarseillesAnd Beziers.
And for all this I have considerable regret,For the good BellairesAre very charming people.
Come, my songs, let us speak of perfection—We shall get ourselves rather disliked.
Come, my songs, let us speak of perfection—We shall get ourselves rather disliked.
Come, my songs, let us speak of perfection—We shall get ourselves rather disliked.
Ahyes, my songs, let us resurrectThe very excellent termRusticus.Let us apply it in all its opprobriumTo those to whom it applies.And you may decline to make them immortal.For we shall consider them and their stateIn delicateOpulent silence.
Ahyes, my songs, let us resurrectThe very excellent termRusticus.Let us apply it in all its opprobriumTo those to whom it applies.And you may decline to make them immortal.For we shall consider them and their stateIn delicateOpulent silence.
Ahyes, my songs, let us resurrectThe very excellent termRusticus.Let us apply it in all its opprobriumTo those to whom it applies.And you may decline to make them immortal.For we shall consider them and their stateIn delicateOpulent silence.
Come, my songs,Let us take arms against this sea of stupidities—Beginning with Mumpodorus;And against this sea of vulgarities—Beginning with Nimmim;And against this sea of imbeciles—All the Bulmenian literati.
Come, my songs,Let us take arms against this sea of stupidities—Beginning with Mumpodorus;And against this sea of vulgarities—Beginning with Nimmim;And against this sea of imbeciles—All the Bulmenian literati.
Come, my songs,Let us take arms against this sea of stupidities—Beginning with Mumpodorus;And against this sea of vulgarities—Beginning with Nimmim;And against this sea of imbeciles—All the Bulmenian literati.
Thebashful AridesHas married an ugly wife,He was bored with his manner of life,Indifferent and discouraged he thought he might asWell do this as anything else.Saying within his heart, “I am no use to myself,Let her, if she wants me, take me.”He went to his doom.
Thebashful AridesHas married an ugly wife,He was bored with his manner of life,Indifferent and discouraged he thought he might asWell do this as anything else.Saying within his heart, “I am no use to myself,Let her, if she wants me, take me.”He went to his doom.
Thebashful AridesHas married an ugly wife,He was bored with his manner of life,Indifferent and discouraged he thought he might asWell do this as anything else.
Saying within his heart, “I am no use to myself,Let her, if she wants me, take me.”He went to his doom.
Asa bathtub lined with white porcelain,When the hot water gives out or goes tepid,So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion,O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.
Asa bathtub lined with white porcelain,When the hot water gives out or goes tepid,So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion,O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.
Asa bathtub lined with white porcelain,When the hot water gives out or goes tepid,So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion,O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.
Old friends the most.W. B. Y.
Old friends the most.W. B. Y.
Old friends the most.W. B. Y.
To one, on returning certain years after.
Youwore the same quite correct clothing,You took no pleasure at all in my triumphs,You had the same old air of condescensionMingled with a curious fearThat I, myself, might have enjoyed them.Te voilà, mon Bourrienne, you also shall be immortal.
Youwore the same quite correct clothing,You took no pleasure at all in my triumphs,You had the same old air of condescensionMingled with a curious fearThat I, myself, might have enjoyed them.Te voilà, mon Bourrienne, you also shall be immortal.
Youwore the same quite correct clothing,You took no pleasure at all in my triumphs,You had the same old air of condescensionMingled with a curious fearThat I, myself, might have enjoyed them.
Te voilà, mon Bourrienne, you also shall be immortal.
To another.
And we say good-bye to you also,For you seem never to have discoveredThat your relationship is wholly parasitic;Yet to our feasts you bring neitherWit, nor good spirits, nor the pleasing attitudesOf discipleship.
And we say good-bye to you also,For you seem never to have discoveredThat your relationship is wholly parasitic;Yet to our feasts you bring neitherWit, nor good spirits, nor the pleasing attitudesOf discipleship.
And we say good-bye to you also,For you seem never to have discoveredThat your relationship is wholly parasitic;Yet to our feasts you bring neitherWit, nor good spirits, nor the pleasing attitudesOf discipleship.
But you,bos amic, we keep on,For to you we owe a real debt:In spite of your obvious flaws,You once discovered a moderate chop-house.
But you,bos amic, we keep on,For to you we owe a real debt:In spite of your obvious flaws,You once discovered a moderate chop-house.
But you,bos amic, we keep on,For to you we owe a real debt:In spite of your obvious flaws,You once discovered a moderate chop-house.
Iste fuit vir incultus,Deo laus, quod est sepultus,Vermes habent eius vultumA-a-a-a—A-men.Ego autem jovialisGaudero contubernalisCum jocunda femina.
Iste fuit vir incultus,Deo laus, quod est sepultus,Vermes habent eius vultumA-a-a-a—A-men.Ego autem jovialisGaudero contubernalisCum jocunda femina.
Iste fuit vir incultus,Deo laus, quod est sepultus,Vermes habent eius vultumA-a-a-a—A-men.Ego autem jovialisGaudero contubernalisCum jocunda femina.
Whoam I to condemn you, O Dives,I who am as much embitteredWith povertyAs you are with useless riches?
Whoam I to condemn you, O Dives,I who am as much embitteredWith povertyAs you are with useless riches?
Whoam I to condemn you, O Dives,I who am as much embitteredWith povertyAs you are with useless riches?
Fourand forty lovers had Agathas in the old days,All of whom she refused;And now she turns to me seeking love,And her hair also is turning.
Fourand forty lovers had Agathas in the old days,All of whom she refused;And now she turns to me seeking love,And her hair also is turning.
Fourand forty lovers had Agathas in the old days,All of whom she refused;And now she turns to me seeking love,And her hair also is turning.
I have fed your lar with poppies,I have adored you for three full years;And now you grumble because your dress does not fitAnd because I happen to say so.
I have fed your lar with poppies,I have adored you for three full years;And now you grumble because your dress does not fitAnd because I happen to say so.
I have fed your lar with poppies,I have adored you for three full years;And now you grumble because your dress does not fitAnd because I happen to say so.
Memnon, Memnon, that ladyWho used to walk about amongst usWith such gracious uncertainty,Is now weddedTo a British householder.Lugete, Veneres! Lugete, Cupidinesque!
Memnon, Memnon, that ladyWho used to walk about amongst usWith such gracious uncertainty,Is now weddedTo a British householder.Lugete, Veneres! Lugete, Cupidinesque!
Memnon, Memnon, that ladyWho used to walk about amongst usWith such gracious uncertainty,Is now weddedTo a British householder.Lugete, Veneres! Lugete, Cupidinesque!
Flawless as Aphrodite,Thoroughly beautiful,Brainless,The faint odour of your patchouli,Faint, almost, as the lines of cruelty about your chin,Assails me, and concerns me almost as little.
Flawless as Aphrodite,Thoroughly beautiful,Brainless,The faint odour of your patchouli,Faint, almost, as the lines of cruelty about your chin,Assails me, and concerns me almost as little.
Flawless as Aphrodite,Thoroughly beautiful,Brainless,The faint odour of your patchouli,Faint, almost, as the lines of cruelty about your chin,Assails me, and concerns me almost as little.
Omysongs,Why do you look so eagerly and so curiously into people’s faces,Will you find your lost dead among them?
Omysongs,Why do you look so eagerly and so curiously into people’s faces,Will you find your lost dead among them?
Omysongs,Why do you look so eagerly and so curiously into people’s faces,Will you find your lost dead among them?
GoodGod! They say you arerisqué,O canzonetti!We who went out into the fourA.M.of the worldComposing our albas,We who shook off our dew with the rabbits,We who have seen even Artemis a-binding her sandals,Have we ever heard the like?O mountains of Hellas!!Gather about me, O Muses!When we sat upon the granite brink in HeliconClothed in the tattered sunlight,O Muses with delicate shins,O Muses with delectable knee-joints,When we splashed and were splashed withThe lucid Castalian spray,Had we ever such an epithet cast upon us!!
GoodGod! They say you arerisqué,O canzonetti!We who went out into the fourA.M.of the worldComposing our albas,We who shook off our dew with the rabbits,We who have seen even Artemis a-binding her sandals,Have we ever heard the like?O mountains of Hellas!!Gather about me, O Muses!When we sat upon the granite brink in HeliconClothed in the tattered sunlight,O Muses with delicate shins,O Muses with delectable knee-joints,When we splashed and were splashed withThe lucid Castalian spray,Had we ever such an epithet cast upon us!!
GoodGod! They say you arerisqué,O canzonetti!We who went out into the fourA.M.of the worldComposing our albas,We who shook off our dew with the rabbits,We who have seen even Artemis a-binding her sandals,Have we ever heard the like?O mountains of Hellas!!
Gather about me, O Muses!When we sat upon the granite brink in HeliconClothed in the tattered sunlight,O Muses with delicate shins,O Muses with delectable knee-joints,When we splashed and were splashed withThe lucid Castalian spray,Had we ever such an epithet cast upon us!!
Lady, since you care nothing for me,And since you have shut me away from youCauselessly,I know not where to go seeking,For certainlyI will never again gatherJoy so rich, and if I find not everA lady with look so speakingTo my desire, worth yours whom I have lost,I’ll have no other love at any cost.And since I could not find a peer to you,Neither one so fair, nor of such heart,So eager and alert,Nor with such artIn attire, nor so gayNor with gift so bountiful and so true,I will go out a-searching,Culling from each a fair traitTo make me a borrowed ladyTill I again find you ready.Bels Cembelins, I take of you your colour,For it’s your own, and your glanceWhere love is,A proud thing I do here,For, as to colour and eyesI shall have missed nothing at all,Having yours.I ask of Midons Aelis (of Montfort)Her straight speech free-running,That my phantom lack not in cunning.At Chalais of the Viscountess, I wouldThat she give me outrightHer two hands and her throat,So take I my roadTo Rochechouart,Swift-foot to my Lady Anhes,Seeing that Tristan’s lady Iseutz had neverSuch grace of locks, I do ye to wit,Though she’d the far fame for it.Of Audiart at Malemort,Though she with a full heartWish me ill,I’d have her form that’s lacedSo cunningly,Without blemish, for her loveBreaks not nor turns aside.I of Miels-de-ben demandHer straight fresh body,She is so supple and young,Her robes can but do her wrong.Her white teeth, of the Lady FaiditaI ask, and the fine courtesyShe hath to welcome one,And such replies she lavishesWithin her nest;Of Bels Mirals, the rest,Tall stature and gaiety,To make these availShe knoweth well, betideNo change nor turning aside.Ah, Bels Senher, Maent, at lastI ask naught from you,Save that I have such hunger forThis phantomAs I’ve for you, such flame-lap,And yet I’d ratherAsk of you than hold another,Mayhap, right close and kissed.Ah, lady, why have you castMe out, knowing you hold me so fast!
Lady, since you care nothing for me,And since you have shut me away from youCauselessly,I know not where to go seeking,For certainlyI will never again gatherJoy so rich, and if I find not everA lady with look so speakingTo my desire, worth yours whom I have lost,I’ll have no other love at any cost.And since I could not find a peer to you,Neither one so fair, nor of such heart,So eager and alert,Nor with such artIn attire, nor so gayNor with gift so bountiful and so true,I will go out a-searching,Culling from each a fair traitTo make me a borrowed ladyTill I again find you ready.Bels Cembelins, I take of you your colour,For it’s your own, and your glanceWhere love is,A proud thing I do here,For, as to colour and eyesI shall have missed nothing at all,Having yours.I ask of Midons Aelis (of Montfort)Her straight speech free-running,That my phantom lack not in cunning.At Chalais of the Viscountess, I wouldThat she give me outrightHer two hands and her throat,So take I my roadTo Rochechouart,Swift-foot to my Lady Anhes,Seeing that Tristan’s lady Iseutz had neverSuch grace of locks, I do ye to wit,Though she’d the far fame for it.Of Audiart at Malemort,Though she with a full heartWish me ill,I’d have her form that’s lacedSo cunningly,Without blemish, for her loveBreaks not nor turns aside.I of Miels-de-ben demandHer straight fresh body,She is so supple and young,Her robes can but do her wrong.Her white teeth, of the Lady FaiditaI ask, and the fine courtesyShe hath to welcome one,And such replies she lavishesWithin her nest;Of Bels Mirals, the rest,Tall stature and gaiety,To make these availShe knoweth well, betideNo change nor turning aside.Ah, Bels Senher, Maent, at lastI ask naught from you,Save that I have such hunger forThis phantomAs I’ve for you, such flame-lap,And yet I’d ratherAsk of you than hold another,Mayhap, right close and kissed.Ah, lady, why have you castMe out, knowing you hold me so fast!
Lady, since you care nothing for me,And since you have shut me away from youCauselessly,I know not where to go seeking,For certainlyI will never again gatherJoy so rich, and if I find not everA lady with look so speakingTo my desire, worth yours whom I have lost,I’ll have no other love at any cost.
And since I could not find a peer to you,Neither one so fair, nor of such heart,So eager and alert,Nor with such artIn attire, nor so gayNor with gift so bountiful and so true,I will go out a-searching,Culling from each a fair traitTo make me a borrowed ladyTill I again find you ready.
Bels Cembelins, I take of you your colour,For it’s your own, and your glanceWhere love is,A proud thing I do here,For, as to colour and eyesI shall have missed nothing at all,Having yours.I ask of Midons Aelis (of Montfort)Her straight speech free-running,That my phantom lack not in cunning.
At Chalais of the Viscountess, I wouldThat she give me outrightHer two hands and her throat,So take I my roadTo Rochechouart,Swift-foot to my Lady Anhes,Seeing that Tristan’s lady Iseutz had neverSuch grace of locks, I do ye to wit,Though she’d the far fame for it.
Of Audiart at Malemort,Though she with a full heartWish me ill,I’d have her form that’s lacedSo cunningly,Without blemish, for her loveBreaks not nor turns aside.I of Miels-de-ben demandHer straight fresh body,She is so supple and young,Her robes can but do her wrong.
Her white teeth, of the Lady FaiditaI ask, and the fine courtesyShe hath to welcome one,And such replies she lavishesWithin her nest;Of Bels Mirals, the rest,Tall stature and gaiety,To make these availShe knoweth well, betideNo change nor turning aside.
Ah, Bels Senher, Maent, at lastI ask naught from you,Save that I have such hunger forThis phantomAs I’ve for you, such flame-lap,And yet I’d ratherAsk of you than hold another,Mayhap, right close and kissed.Ah, lady, why have you castMe out, knowing you hold me so fast!
Animage of Lethe,and the fieldsFull of faint lightbut golden,Gray cliffs,and beneath themA seaHarsher than granite,unstill, never ceasing;High formswith the movement of gods,Perilous aspect;And one said:“This is Actaeon.”Actaeon of golden greaves!Over fair meadows,Over the cool face of that field,Unstill, ever moving,Hosts of an ancient people,The silent cortège.
Animage of Lethe,and the fieldsFull of faint lightbut golden,Gray cliffs,and beneath themA seaHarsher than granite,unstill, never ceasing;High formswith the movement of gods,Perilous aspect;And one said:“This is Actaeon.”Actaeon of golden greaves!Over fair meadows,Over the cool face of that field,Unstill, ever moving,Hosts of an ancient people,The silent cortège.
Animage of Lethe,and the fieldsFull of faint lightbut golden,Gray cliffs,and beneath themA seaHarsher than granite,unstill, never ceasing;High formswith the movement of gods,Perilous aspect;And one said:“This is Actaeon.”Actaeon of golden greaves!
Over fair meadows,Over the cool face of that field,Unstill, ever moving,Hosts of an ancient people,The silent cortège.
Iwillget me to the woodWhere the gods walk garlanded in wistaria,By the silver blue floodmove others with ivory cars.There come forth many maidensto gather grapes for the leopards, my friend,For there are leopards drawing the cars.I will walk in the glade,I will come out of the new thicketand accost the procession of maidens.
Iwillget me to the woodWhere the gods walk garlanded in wistaria,By the silver blue floodmove others with ivory cars.There come forth many maidensto gather grapes for the leopards, my friend,For there are leopards drawing the cars.I will walk in the glade,I will come out of the new thicketand accost the procession of maidens.
Iwillget me to the woodWhere the gods walk garlanded in wistaria,By the silver blue floodmove others with ivory cars.There come forth many maidensto gather grapes for the leopards, my friend,For there are leopards drawing the cars.
I will walk in the glade,I will come out of the new thicketand accost the procession of maidens.
Therustling of the silk is discontinued,Dust drifts over the court-yard,There is no sound of foot-fall, and the leavesScurry into heaps and lie still,And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them:A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.
Therustling of the silk is discontinued,Dust drifts over the court-yard,There is no sound of foot-fall, and the leavesScurry into heaps and lie still,And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them:A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.
Therustling of the silk is discontinued,Dust drifts over the court-yard,There is no sound of foot-fall, and the leavesScurry into heaps and lie still,And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them:
A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.
Ofanof white silk,clear as frost on the grass-blade,You also are laid aside.
Ofanof white silk,clear as frost on the grass-blade,You also are laid aside.
Ofanof white silk,clear as frost on the grass-blade,You also are laid aside.
The petals fall in the fountain,the orange-coloured rose-leaves,Their ochre clings to the stone.
The petals fall in the fountain,the orange-coloured rose-leaves,Their ochre clings to the stone.
The petals fall in the fountain,the orange-coloured rose-leaves,Their ochre clings to the stone.
Theapparition of these faces in the crowd;Petals on a wet, black bough.
Theapparition of these faces in the crowd;Petals on a wet, black bough.
Theapparition of these faces in the crowd;Petals on a wet, black bough.
Ascool as the pale wet leavesof lily-of-the-valleyShe lay beside me in the dawn.
Ascool as the pale wet leavesof lily-of-the-valleyShe lay beside me in the dawn.
Ascool as the pale wet leavesof lily-of-the-valleyShe lay beside me in the dawn.
Theblack panther treads at my side,And above my fingersThere float the petal-like flames.The milk-white girlsUnbend from the holly-trees,And their snow-white leopardWatches to follow our trace.
Theblack panther treads at my side,And above my fingersThere float the petal-like flames.The milk-white girlsUnbend from the holly-trees,And their snow-white leopardWatches to follow our trace.
Theblack panther treads at my side,And above my fingersThere float the petal-like flames.
The milk-white girlsUnbend from the holly-trees,And their snow-white leopardWatches to follow our trace.
Ha! sir, I have seen you sniffing and snoozling aboutamong my flowers.And what, pray, do you know about horticulture,you capriped?“Come, Auster, come, Apeliota,And see the faun in our garden.But if you move or speakThis thing will run at youAnd scare itself to spasms.”
Ha! sir, I have seen you sniffing and snoozling aboutamong my flowers.And what, pray, do you know about horticulture,you capriped?“Come, Auster, come, Apeliota,And see the faun in our garden.But if you move or speakThis thing will run at youAnd scare itself to spasms.”
Ha! sir, I have seen you sniffing and snoozling aboutamong my flowers.And what, pray, do you know about horticulture,you capriped?
“Come, Auster, come, Apeliota,And see the faun in our garden.But if you move or speakThis thing will run at youAnd scare itself to spasms.”
Thegilded phaloi of the crocusesare thrusting at the spring air.Here is there naught of dead godsBut a procession of festival,A procession, O Giulio Romano,Fit for your spirit to dwell in.Dione, your nights are upon us.The dew is upon the leaf.The night about us is restless.
Thegilded phaloi of the crocusesare thrusting at the spring air.Here is there naught of dead godsBut a procession of festival,A procession, O Giulio Romano,Fit for your spirit to dwell in.Dione, your nights are upon us.The dew is upon the leaf.The night about us is restless.
Thegilded phaloi of the crocusesare thrusting at the spring air.Here is there naught of dead godsBut a procession of festival,A procession, O Giulio Romano,Fit for your spirit to dwell in.Dione, your nights are upon us.
The dew is upon the leaf.The night about us is restless.
Allthe while they were talking the new moralityHer eyes explored me.And when I arose to goHer fingers were like the tissueOf a Japanese paper napkin.
Allthe while they were talking the new moralityHer eyes explored me.And when I arose to goHer fingers were like the tissueOf a Japanese paper napkin.
Allthe while they were talking the new moralityHer eyes explored me.And when I arose to goHer fingers were like the tissueOf a Japanese paper napkin.
Io! Io! Tamuz!The Dryad stands in my court-yardWith plaintive, querulous crying.(Tamuz. Io! Tamuz!)Oh, no, she is not crying: “Tamuz.”She says, “May my poems be printed this week?The god Pan is afraid to ask you,May my poems be printed this week?”
Io! Io! Tamuz!The Dryad stands in my court-yardWith plaintive, querulous crying.(Tamuz. Io! Tamuz!)Oh, no, she is not crying: “Tamuz.”She says, “May my poems be printed this week?The god Pan is afraid to ask you,May my poems be printed this week?”
Io! Io! Tamuz!The Dryad stands in my court-yardWith plaintive, querulous crying.(Tamuz. Io! Tamuz!)Oh, no, she is not crying: “Tamuz.”She says, “May my poems be printed this week?The god Pan is afraid to ask you,May my poems be printed this week?”
Atthe table beyond usWith her little suede slippers off,With her white-stocking’d feetCarefully kept from the floor by a napkin,She converses:Connaissez-vous Ostende?The gurgling Italian lady on the other side of the restaurantReplies with a certain hauteur,But I await with patienceTo see how Celestine will re-enter her slippers.She re-enters them with a groan.
Atthe table beyond usWith her little suede slippers off,With her white-stocking’d feetCarefully kept from the floor by a napkin,She converses:Connaissez-vous Ostende?The gurgling Italian lady on the other side of the restaurantReplies with a certain hauteur,But I await with patienceTo see how Celestine will re-enter her slippers.She re-enters them with a groan.
Atthe table beyond usWith her little suede slippers off,With her white-stocking’d feetCarefully kept from the floor by a napkin,She converses:Connaissez-vous Ostende?The gurgling Italian lady on the other side of the restaurantReplies with a certain hauteur,But I await with patienceTo see how Celestine will re-enter her slippers.She re-enters them with a groan.
Thefamily position was waning,And on this account the little Aurelia,Who had laughed on eighteen summers,Now bears the palsied contact of Phidippus.
Thefamily position was waning,And on this account the little Aurelia,Who had laughed on eighteen summers,Now bears the palsied contact of Phidippus.
Thefamily position was waning,And on this account the little Aurelia,Who had laughed on eighteen summers,Now bears the palsied contact of Phidippus.
Youngmen riding in the streetIn the bright new seasonSpur without reason,Causing their steeds to leap.And at the pace they keepTheir horses’ armoured feetStrike sparks from the cobbled streetIn the bright new season.
Youngmen riding in the streetIn the bright new seasonSpur without reason,Causing their steeds to leap.And at the pace they keepTheir horses’ armoured feetStrike sparks from the cobbled streetIn the bright new season.
Youngmen riding in the streetIn the bright new seasonSpur without reason,Causing their steeds to leap.
And at the pace they keepTheir horses’ armoured feetStrike sparks from the cobbled streetIn the bright new season.
Spring...Too long ...Gongula ...
Spring...Too long ...Gongula ...
Spring...Too long ...Gongula ...
Emptyare the ways,Empty are the ways of this landAnd the flowersBend over with heavy heads.They bend in vain.Empty are the ways of this landWhere IoneWalked once, and now does not walkBut seems like a person just gone.
Emptyare the ways,Empty are the ways of this landAnd the flowersBend over with heavy heads.They bend in vain.Empty are the ways of this landWhere IoneWalked once, and now does not walkBut seems like a person just gone.
Emptyare the ways,Empty are the ways of this landAnd the flowersBend over with heavy heads.They bend in vain.Empty are the ways of this landWhere IoneWalked once, and now does not walk
But seems like a person just gone.
Fora moment she rested against meLike a swallow half blown to the wall,And they talk of Swinburne’s women,And the shepherdess meeting with Guido,And the harlots of Baudelaire.
Fora moment she rested against meLike a swallow half blown to the wall,And they talk of Swinburne’s women,And the shepherdess meeting with Guido,And the harlots of Baudelaire.
Fora moment she rested against meLike a swallow half blown to the wall,And they talk of Swinburne’s women,And the shepherdess meeting with Guido,And the harlots of Baudelaire.
AllHail! young lady with a noseby no means too small,With a foot unbeautiful,and with eyes that are not black,With fingers that are not long, and with a mouth undry,And with a tongue by no means too elegant,You are the friend of Formianus, the vendor of cosmetics,And they call you beautiful in the province,And you are even compared to Lesbia.O most unfortunate age!
AllHail! young lady with a noseby no means too small,With a foot unbeautiful,and with eyes that are not black,With fingers that are not long, and with a mouth undry,And with a tongue by no means too elegant,You are the friend of Formianus, the vendor of cosmetics,And they call you beautiful in the province,And you are even compared to Lesbia.O most unfortunate age!
AllHail! young lady with a noseby no means too small,With a foot unbeautiful,and with eyes that are not black,With fingers that are not long, and with a mouth undry,And with a tongue by no means too elegant,You are the friend of Formianus, the vendor of cosmetics,And they call you beautiful in the province,And you are even compared to Lesbia.
O most unfortunate age!
“Itrests me to be among beautiful women.Why should one always lie about such matters?I repeat:It rests me to converse with beautiful womenEven though we talk nothing but nonsense,The purring of the invisible antennæIs both stimulating and delightful.”
“Itrests me to be among beautiful women.Why should one always lie about such matters?I repeat:It rests me to converse with beautiful womenEven though we talk nothing but nonsense,The purring of the invisible antennæIs both stimulating and delightful.”
“Itrests me to be among beautiful women.Why should one always lie about such matters?
I repeat:It rests me to converse with beautiful womenEven though we talk nothing but nonsense,
The purring of the invisible antennæIs both stimulating and delightful.”
Greenarsenic smeared on an egg-white cloth,Crushed strawberries! Come, let us feast our eyes.
Greenarsenic smeared on an egg-white cloth,Crushed strawberries! Come, let us feast our eyes.
Greenarsenic smeared on an egg-white cloth,Crushed strawberries! Come, let us feast our eyes.
Whydoes the horse-faced lady of just the unmentionable ageWalk down Longacre reciting Swinburne to herself, inaudibly?Why does the small child in the soiled-white imitation fur coatCrawl in the very black gutter beneath the grape stand?Why does the really handsome young woman approach me in Sackville StreetUndeterred by the manifest age of my trappings?
Whydoes the horse-faced lady of just the unmentionable ageWalk down Longacre reciting Swinburne to herself, inaudibly?Why does the small child in the soiled-white imitation fur coatCrawl in the very black gutter beneath the grape stand?Why does the really handsome young woman approach me in Sackville StreetUndeterred by the manifest age of my trappings?
Whydoes the horse-faced lady of just the unmentionable ageWalk down Longacre reciting Swinburne to herself, inaudibly?Why does the small child in the soiled-white imitation fur coatCrawl in the very black gutter beneath the grape stand?Why does the really handsome young woman approach me in Sackville StreetUndeterred by the manifest age of my trappings?
Thegew-gaws of false amber and false turquoise attract them.“Like to like nature”: these agglutinous yellows!
Thegew-gaws of false amber and false turquoise attract them.“Like to like nature”: these agglutinous yellows!
Thegew-gaws of false amber and false turquoise attract them.“Like to like nature”: these agglutinous yellows!
OchansonsforegoingYou were a seven days’ wonder,When you came out in the magazinesYou created considerable stir in Chicago,And now you are stale and worn out,You’re a very depleted fashion,A hoop-skirt, a calash,An homely, transient antiquity.Only emotion remains.Your emotions?Are those of a maître-de-café.
OchansonsforegoingYou were a seven days’ wonder,When you came out in the magazinesYou created considerable stir in Chicago,And now you are stale and worn out,You’re a very depleted fashion,A hoop-skirt, a calash,An homely, transient antiquity.Only emotion remains.Your emotions?Are those of a maître-de-café.
OchansonsforegoingYou were a seven days’ wonder,When you came out in the magazinesYou created considerable stir in Chicago,
And now you are stale and worn out,You’re a very depleted fashion,A hoop-skirt, a calash,An homely, transient antiquity.
Only emotion remains.
Your emotions?Are those of a maître-de-café.
Thisgovernment official,Whose wife is several years his senior,Has such a caressing airWhen he shakes hands with young ladies.
Thisgovernment official,Whose wife is several years his senior,Has such a caressing airWhen he shakes hands with young ladies.
Thisgovernment official,Whose wife is several years his senior,Has such a caressing airWhen he shakes hands with young ladies.
(Pompes Funèbres)