A. L. HUXLEY(BALLIOL)L'APRÈS-MIDI D'UN FAUNE(From the French of Stéphane Mallarmé.)I wouldimmortalize these nymphs: so brightTheir sunlit colouring, so airy-light,It floats like drowsing down. Loved I a dream?My doubts, born of oblivious darkness, seemA subtle tracery of branches grownThe tree's true self—proving that I have knownNo triumph, but the shadow of a rose.But think. These nymphs, their loveliness ... supposeThey bodied forth my senses' fabulous thirst.Illusion! which the blue eyes of the first,As cold and chaste as is the weeping spring,Beget: the other, sighing, passioning,Is she the wind, warm in your fleece at noon?No. Through this quiet, when a weary swoonCrushes and chokes the latest faint essayOf morning, cool against the encroaching day,There is no murmuring water, save the gushOf my clear fluted notes; and in the hushBlows never a wind save that which through my reedPuffs out before the rain of notes can speedUpon the air, with that calm breath of artThat mounts the unwrinkled zenith visibly,Where inspiration seeks its native sky.You fringes of a calm Sicilian lake,The sun's own mirror, which I love to take,Silent beneath your starry flowers, tellHow here I cut the hollow rushes, wellTamed by my skill, when, on the glaucous goldOf distant lawns about their fountain cold,A living whiteness stirs like a lazy wave,And at the first slow notes my panpipes gaveThese flocking swans, these naiads rather, flyOr dive.Noon burns inert and tawny-dry,Nor marks how clean that Hymen slipped awayFrom me who seek in song the real A.Wake, then, to your first ardour and the sight,O lonely faun, of the old fierce white light,With, lilies, one of you for innocence.Other than their lips' delicate pretence,The light caress that quiets treacherous lovers,My breast, I know not how to tell, discoversThe bitten print of some immortal's kiss.But hush! a mystery so great as thisI dare not tell, save to my double reed,Which, sharer of my every joy and need,Dreams down its cadenced monologues that weFalsely confuse the beauties that we seeWith the bright palpable shapes our song creates:My flute, as loud as passion modulates,Purges the common dream of flank and breast,Seen through closed eyes and inwardly caressed,Of every empty and monotonous line.Bloom then, O Syrinx, in thy flight malign,A reed once more beside our trysting-lake.Proud of my music let me often makeA song of goddesses and see their rapeProfanely done on many a painted shape.So, when the grape's transparent juice I drain,I quell regrets for pleasure past and feignA new real grape. For holding towards the skyThe empty skin, I blow it tight and lieDream-drunk till evening, eyeing it.Tell o'erRemembered joys and plump the grape once more.Between the reeds I saw their bodies gleamWho cool no mortal fever in the stream,Crying to the woods the rage of their desire:And their bright hair went down in jewelled fireWhere crystal broke and dazzled shudderingly.I check my swift pursuit; for see where lie,Bruised, being twins in love, by languor sweet,Two sleeping girls, clasped at my very feet.I seize and run with them, nor part the pair,Breaking this covert of frail petals, whereRoses drink scent of the sun and our light play'Mid tumbled flowers shall match the death of day.I love that virginal fury, ah! the wildThrill when a maiden body shrinks, defiled,Shuddering like arctic light, from lips that searIts nakedness ... the flesh in secret fear!Contagiously through my linked pair it fliesWhere innocence in either, struggling, dies,Wet with fond tears or some less piteous dew.Gay in the conquest of these fears, I grewSo rash that I must needs the sheaf divideOf ruffled kisses heaven itself had tied.For as I leaned to stifle in the hairOf one my passionate laughter (taking careWith a stretched finger, that her innocenceMight stain with her companion's kindling sense,To touch the younger little one, who layChild-like unblushing) my ungrateful preySlips from me, freed by passion's sudden death,Nor heeds the frenzy of my sobbing breath.Let it pass! others of their hair shall twistA rope to drag me to those joys I missed.See how the bursting currants ripe and redTo quench the thirst of the mumbling bees have bled;So too our blood, kindled by some chance fire,Flows for the swarming legions of desire.At evening, when the woodland green turns goldAnd ashen-grey, 'mid the quenched leaves, behold!Red Etna glows, by Venus visited,Walking the lava with her snowy treadWhene'er the flames in thunderous slumber die.I hold the goddess!Ah, sure penalty!But the unthinking soul and body swoonAt last beneath the heavy hush of noon.Forgetful let me lie where summer's drouthSifts fine the sand, and then with gaping mouthDream, planet-struck by the grape's round wine-red star.Nymphs, I shall see the shade that now you are.
A. L. HUXLEY(BALLIOL)
A. L. HUXLEY(BALLIOL)
(From the French of Stéphane Mallarmé.)
I wouldimmortalize these nymphs: so brightTheir sunlit colouring, so airy-light,It floats like drowsing down. Loved I a dream?My doubts, born of oblivious darkness, seemA subtle tracery of branches grownThe tree's true self—proving that I have knownNo triumph, but the shadow of a rose.But think. These nymphs, their loveliness ... supposeThey bodied forth my senses' fabulous thirst.Illusion! which the blue eyes of the first,As cold and chaste as is the weeping spring,Beget: the other, sighing, passioning,Is she the wind, warm in your fleece at noon?No. Through this quiet, when a weary swoonCrushes and chokes the latest faint essayOf morning, cool against the encroaching day,There is no murmuring water, save the gushOf my clear fluted notes; and in the hushBlows never a wind save that which through my reedPuffs out before the rain of notes can speedUpon the air, with that calm breath of artThat mounts the unwrinkled zenith visibly,Where inspiration seeks its native sky.You fringes of a calm Sicilian lake,The sun's own mirror, which I love to take,Silent beneath your starry flowers, tellHow here I cut the hollow rushes, wellTamed by my skill, when, on the glaucous goldOf distant lawns about their fountain cold,A living whiteness stirs like a lazy wave,And at the first slow notes my panpipes gaveThese flocking swans, these naiads rather, flyOr dive.Noon burns inert and tawny-dry,Nor marks how clean that Hymen slipped awayFrom me who seek in song the real A.Wake, then, to your first ardour and the sight,O lonely faun, of the old fierce white light,With, lilies, one of you for innocence.Other than their lips' delicate pretence,The light caress that quiets treacherous lovers,My breast, I know not how to tell, discoversThe bitten print of some immortal's kiss.But hush! a mystery so great as thisI dare not tell, save to my double reed,Which, sharer of my every joy and need,Dreams down its cadenced monologues that weFalsely confuse the beauties that we seeWith the bright palpable shapes our song creates:My flute, as loud as passion modulates,Purges the common dream of flank and breast,Seen through closed eyes and inwardly caressed,Of every empty and monotonous line.Bloom then, O Syrinx, in thy flight malign,A reed once more beside our trysting-lake.Proud of my music let me often makeA song of goddesses and see their rapeProfanely done on many a painted shape.So, when the grape's transparent juice I drain,I quell regrets for pleasure past and feignA new real grape. For holding towards the skyThe empty skin, I blow it tight and lieDream-drunk till evening, eyeing it.Tell o'erRemembered joys and plump the grape once more.Between the reeds I saw their bodies gleamWho cool no mortal fever in the stream,Crying to the woods the rage of their desire:And their bright hair went down in jewelled fireWhere crystal broke and dazzled shudderingly.I check my swift pursuit; for see where lie,Bruised, being twins in love, by languor sweet,Two sleeping girls, clasped at my very feet.I seize and run with them, nor part the pair,Breaking this covert of frail petals, whereRoses drink scent of the sun and our light play'Mid tumbled flowers shall match the death of day.I love that virginal fury, ah! the wildThrill when a maiden body shrinks, defiled,Shuddering like arctic light, from lips that searIts nakedness ... the flesh in secret fear!Contagiously through my linked pair it fliesWhere innocence in either, struggling, dies,Wet with fond tears or some less piteous dew.Gay in the conquest of these fears, I grewSo rash that I must needs the sheaf divideOf ruffled kisses heaven itself had tied.For as I leaned to stifle in the hairOf one my passionate laughter (taking careWith a stretched finger, that her innocenceMight stain with her companion's kindling sense,To touch the younger little one, who layChild-like unblushing) my ungrateful preySlips from me, freed by passion's sudden death,Nor heeds the frenzy of my sobbing breath.Let it pass! others of their hair shall twistA rope to drag me to those joys I missed.See how the bursting currants ripe and redTo quench the thirst of the mumbling bees have bled;So too our blood, kindled by some chance fire,Flows for the swarming legions of desire.At evening, when the woodland green turns goldAnd ashen-grey, 'mid the quenched leaves, behold!Red Etna glows, by Venus visited,Walking the lava with her snowy treadWhene'er the flames in thunderous slumber die.I hold the goddess!Ah, sure penalty!But the unthinking soul and body swoonAt last beneath the heavy hush of noon.Forgetful let me lie where summer's drouthSifts fine the sand, and then with gaping mouthDream, planet-struck by the grape's round wine-red star.Nymphs, I shall see the shade that now you are.
I wouldimmortalize these nymphs: so brightTheir sunlit colouring, so airy-light,It floats like drowsing down. Loved I a dream?My doubts, born of oblivious darkness, seemA subtle tracery of branches grownThe tree's true self—proving that I have knownNo triumph, but the shadow of a rose.But think. These nymphs, their loveliness ... supposeThey bodied forth my senses' fabulous thirst.Illusion! which the blue eyes of the first,As cold and chaste as is the weeping spring,Beget: the other, sighing, passioning,Is she the wind, warm in your fleece at noon?No. Through this quiet, when a weary swoonCrushes and chokes the latest faint essayOf morning, cool against the encroaching day,There is no murmuring water, save the gushOf my clear fluted notes; and in the hushBlows never a wind save that which through my reedPuffs out before the rain of notes can speedUpon the air, with that calm breath of artThat mounts the unwrinkled zenith visibly,Where inspiration seeks its native sky.You fringes of a calm Sicilian lake,The sun's own mirror, which I love to take,Silent beneath your starry flowers, tellHow here I cut the hollow rushes, wellTamed by my skill, when, on the glaucous goldOf distant lawns about their fountain cold,A living whiteness stirs like a lazy wave,And at the first slow notes my panpipes gaveThese flocking swans, these naiads rather, flyOr dive.Noon burns inert and tawny-dry,Nor marks how clean that Hymen slipped awayFrom me who seek in song the real A.Wake, then, to your first ardour and the sight,O lonely faun, of the old fierce white light,With, lilies, one of you for innocence.Other than their lips' delicate pretence,The light caress that quiets treacherous lovers,My breast, I know not how to tell, discoversThe bitten print of some immortal's kiss.But hush! a mystery so great as thisI dare not tell, save to my double reed,Which, sharer of my every joy and need,Dreams down its cadenced monologues that weFalsely confuse the beauties that we seeWith the bright palpable shapes our song creates:My flute, as loud as passion modulates,Purges the common dream of flank and breast,Seen through closed eyes and inwardly caressed,Of every empty and monotonous line.Bloom then, O Syrinx, in thy flight malign,A reed once more beside our trysting-lake.Proud of my music let me often makeA song of goddesses and see their rapeProfanely done on many a painted shape.So, when the grape's transparent juice I drain,I quell regrets for pleasure past and feignA new real grape. For holding towards the skyThe empty skin, I blow it tight and lieDream-drunk till evening, eyeing it.Tell o'erRemembered joys and plump the grape once more.Between the reeds I saw their bodies gleamWho cool no mortal fever in the stream,Crying to the woods the rage of their desire:And their bright hair went down in jewelled fireWhere crystal broke and dazzled shudderingly.I check my swift pursuit; for see where lie,Bruised, being twins in love, by languor sweet,Two sleeping girls, clasped at my very feet.I seize and run with them, nor part the pair,Breaking this covert of frail petals, whereRoses drink scent of the sun and our light play'Mid tumbled flowers shall match the death of day.I love that virginal fury, ah! the wildThrill when a maiden body shrinks, defiled,Shuddering like arctic light, from lips that searIts nakedness ... the flesh in secret fear!Contagiously through my linked pair it fliesWhere innocence in either, struggling, dies,Wet with fond tears or some less piteous dew.Gay in the conquest of these fears, I grewSo rash that I must needs the sheaf divideOf ruffled kisses heaven itself had tied.For as I leaned to stifle in the hairOf one my passionate laughter (taking careWith a stretched finger, that her innocenceMight stain with her companion's kindling sense,To touch the younger little one, who layChild-like unblushing) my ungrateful preySlips from me, freed by passion's sudden death,Nor heeds the frenzy of my sobbing breath.Let it pass! others of their hair shall twistA rope to drag me to those joys I missed.See how the bursting currants ripe and redTo quench the thirst of the mumbling bees have bled;So too our blood, kindled by some chance fire,Flows for the swarming legions of desire.At evening, when the woodland green turns goldAnd ashen-grey, 'mid the quenched leaves, behold!Red Etna glows, by Venus visited,Walking the lava with her snowy treadWhene'er the flames in thunderous slumber die.I hold the goddess!Ah, sure penalty!But the unthinking soul and body swoonAt last beneath the heavy hush of noon.Forgetful let me lie where summer's drouthSifts fine the sand, and then with gaping mouthDream, planet-struck by the grape's round wine-red star.Nymphs, I shall see the shade that now you are.
I wouldimmortalize these nymphs: so brightTheir sunlit colouring, so airy-light,It floats like drowsing down. Loved I a dream?My doubts, born of oblivious darkness, seemA subtle tracery of branches grownThe tree's true self—proving that I have knownNo triumph, but the shadow of a rose.
I wouldimmortalize these nymphs: so bright
Their sunlit colouring, so airy-light,
It floats like drowsing down. Loved I a dream?
My doubts, born of oblivious darkness, seem
A subtle tracery of branches grown
The tree's true self—proving that I have known
No triumph, but the shadow of a rose.
But think. These nymphs, their loveliness ... supposeThey bodied forth my senses' fabulous thirst.Illusion! which the blue eyes of the first,As cold and chaste as is the weeping spring,Beget: the other, sighing, passioning,Is she the wind, warm in your fleece at noon?No. Through this quiet, when a weary swoonCrushes and chokes the latest faint essayOf morning, cool against the encroaching day,There is no murmuring water, save the gushOf my clear fluted notes; and in the hushBlows never a wind save that which through my reedPuffs out before the rain of notes can speedUpon the air, with that calm breath of artThat mounts the unwrinkled zenith visibly,Where inspiration seeks its native sky.
But think. These nymphs, their loveliness ... suppose
They bodied forth my senses' fabulous thirst.
Illusion! which the blue eyes of the first,
As cold and chaste as is the weeping spring,
Beget: the other, sighing, passioning,
Is she the wind, warm in your fleece at noon?
No. Through this quiet, when a weary swoon
Crushes and chokes the latest faint essay
Of morning, cool against the encroaching day,
There is no murmuring water, save the gush
Of my clear fluted notes; and in the hush
Blows never a wind save that which through my reed
Puffs out before the rain of notes can speed
Upon the air, with that calm breath of art
That mounts the unwrinkled zenith visibly,
Where inspiration seeks its native sky.
You fringes of a calm Sicilian lake,The sun's own mirror, which I love to take,Silent beneath your starry flowers, tellHow here I cut the hollow rushes, wellTamed by my skill, when, on the glaucous goldOf distant lawns about their fountain cold,A living whiteness stirs like a lazy wave,And at the first slow notes my panpipes gaveThese flocking swans, these naiads rather, flyOr dive.
You fringes of a calm Sicilian lake,
The sun's own mirror, which I love to take,
Silent beneath your starry flowers, tell
How here I cut the hollow rushes, well
Tamed by my skill, when, on the glaucous gold
Of distant lawns about their fountain cold,
A living whiteness stirs like a lazy wave,
And at the first slow notes my panpipes gave
These flocking swans, these naiads rather, fly
Or dive.
Noon burns inert and tawny-dry,Nor marks how clean that Hymen slipped awayFrom me who seek in song the real A.Wake, then, to your first ardour and the sight,O lonely faun, of the old fierce white light,With, lilies, one of you for innocence.
Noon burns inert and tawny-dry,
Nor marks how clean that Hymen slipped away
From me who seek in song the real A.
Wake, then, to your first ardour and the sight,
O lonely faun, of the old fierce white light,
With, lilies, one of you for innocence.
Other than their lips' delicate pretence,The light caress that quiets treacherous lovers,My breast, I know not how to tell, discoversThe bitten print of some immortal's kiss.But hush! a mystery so great as thisI dare not tell, save to my double reed,Which, sharer of my every joy and need,Dreams down its cadenced monologues that weFalsely confuse the beauties that we seeWith the bright palpable shapes our song creates:My flute, as loud as passion modulates,Purges the common dream of flank and breast,Seen through closed eyes and inwardly caressed,Of every empty and monotonous line.
Other than their lips' delicate pretence,
The light caress that quiets treacherous lovers,
My breast, I know not how to tell, discovers
The bitten print of some immortal's kiss.
But hush! a mystery so great as this
I dare not tell, save to my double reed,
Which, sharer of my every joy and need,
Dreams down its cadenced monologues that we
Falsely confuse the beauties that we see
With the bright palpable shapes our song creates:
My flute, as loud as passion modulates,
Purges the common dream of flank and breast,
Seen through closed eyes and inwardly caressed,
Of every empty and monotonous line.
Bloom then, O Syrinx, in thy flight malign,A reed once more beside our trysting-lake.Proud of my music let me often makeA song of goddesses and see their rapeProfanely done on many a painted shape.So, when the grape's transparent juice I drain,I quell regrets for pleasure past and feignA new real grape. For holding towards the skyThe empty skin, I blow it tight and lieDream-drunk till evening, eyeing it.
Bloom then, O Syrinx, in thy flight malign,
A reed once more beside our trysting-lake.
Proud of my music let me often make
A song of goddesses and see their rape
Profanely done on many a painted shape.
So, when the grape's transparent juice I drain,
I quell regrets for pleasure past and feign
A new real grape. For holding towards the sky
The empty skin, I blow it tight and lie
Dream-drunk till evening, eyeing it.
Tell o'erRemembered joys and plump the grape once more.Between the reeds I saw their bodies gleamWho cool no mortal fever in the stream,Crying to the woods the rage of their desire:And their bright hair went down in jewelled fireWhere crystal broke and dazzled shudderingly.I check my swift pursuit; for see where lie,Bruised, being twins in love, by languor sweet,Two sleeping girls, clasped at my very feet.I seize and run with them, nor part the pair,Breaking this covert of frail petals, whereRoses drink scent of the sun and our light play'Mid tumbled flowers shall match the death of day.I love that virginal fury, ah! the wildThrill when a maiden body shrinks, defiled,Shuddering like arctic light, from lips that searIts nakedness ... the flesh in secret fear!Contagiously through my linked pair it fliesWhere innocence in either, struggling, dies,Wet with fond tears or some less piteous dew.Gay in the conquest of these fears, I grewSo rash that I must needs the sheaf divideOf ruffled kisses heaven itself had tied.For as I leaned to stifle in the hairOf one my passionate laughter (taking careWith a stretched finger, that her innocenceMight stain with her companion's kindling sense,To touch the younger little one, who layChild-like unblushing) my ungrateful preySlips from me, freed by passion's sudden death,Nor heeds the frenzy of my sobbing breath.Let it pass! others of their hair shall twistA rope to drag me to those joys I missed.See how the bursting currants ripe and redTo quench the thirst of the mumbling bees have bled;So too our blood, kindled by some chance fire,Flows for the swarming legions of desire.At evening, when the woodland green turns goldAnd ashen-grey, 'mid the quenched leaves, behold!Red Etna glows, by Venus visited,Walking the lava with her snowy treadWhene'er the flames in thunderous slumber die.I hold the goddess!Ah, sure penalty!But the unthinking soul and body swoonAt last beneath the heavy hush of noon.Forgetful let me lie where summer's drouthSifts fine the sand, and then with gaping mouthDream, planet-struck by the grape's round wine-red star.Nymphs, I shall see the shade that now you are.
Tell o'er
Remembered joys and plump the grape once more.
Between the reeds I saw their bodies gleam
Who cool no mortal fever in the stream,
Crying to the woods the rage of their desire:
And their bright hair went down in jewelled fire
Where crystal broke and dazzled shudderingly.
I check my swift pursuit; for see where lie,
Bruised, being twins in love, by languor sweet,
Two sleeping girls, clasped at my very feet.
I seize and run with them, nor part the pair,
Breaking this covert of frail petals, where
Roses drink scent of the sun and our light play
'Mid tumbled flowers shall match the death of day.
I love that virginal fury, ah! the wild
Thrill when a maiden body shrinks, defiled,
Shuddering like arctic light, from lips that sear
Its nakedness ... the flesh in secret fear!
Contagiously through my linked pair it flies
Where innocence in either, struggling, dies,
Wet with fond tears or some less piteous dew.
Gay in the conquest of these fears, I grew
So rash that I must needs the sheaf divide
Of ruffled kisses heaven itself had tied.
For as I leaned to stifle in the hair
Of one my passionate laughter (taking care
With a stretched finger, that her innocence
Might stain with her companion's kindling sense,
To touch the younger little one, who lay
Child-like unblushing) my ungrateful prey
Slips from me, freed by passion's sudden death,
Nor heeds the frenzy of my sobbing breath.
Let it pass! others of their hair shall twist
A rope to drag me to those joys I missed.
See how the bursting currants ripe and red
To quench the thirst of the mumbling bees have bled;
So too our blood, kindled by some chance fire,
Flows for the swarming legions of desire.
At evening, when the woodland green turns gold
And ashen-grey, 'mid the quenched leaves, behold!
Red Etna glows, by Venus visited,
Walking the lava with her snowy tread
Whene'er the flames in thunderous slumber die.
I hold the goddess!
Ah, sure penalty!
But the unthinking soul and body swoon
At last beneath the heavy hush of noon.
Forgetful let me lie where summer's drouth
Sifts fine the sand, and then with gaping mouth
Dream, planet-struck by the grape's round wine-red star.
Nymphs, I shall see the shade that now you are.