The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSilverpointsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: SilverpointsAuthor: John GrayRelease date: April 24, 2007 [eBook #21211]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Ruth Hart ruthhart@twilightoracle.com*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SILVERPOINTS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: SilverpointsAuthor: John GrayRelease date: April 24, 2007 [eBook #21211]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Ruth Hart ruthhart@twilightoracle.com
Title: Silverpoints
Author: John Gray
Author: John Gray
Release date: April 24, 2007 [eBook #21211]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Ruth Hart ruthhart@twilightoracle.com
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SILVERPOINTS ***
SILVERPOINTSBYJOHN GRAYLONDON M.DCCC.XC.IIIELKIN MATHEWS ANDJOHN LANE. AT THESIGN OF THE BODLEYHEAD IN VIGO STREETALL RIGHTS RESERVED. . . EN COMPOSANT DES ACROSTICHES INDOLENTSP.V.LES DEMOISELLES DE SAUVETO S. A. S. ALICE, PRINCESSE DE MONACOBeautiful ladies through the orchard pass;Bend under crutched-up branches, forked and low;Trailing their samet palls o'er dew-drenched grass.Pale blossoms, looking on proud Jacqueline,Blush to the colour of her finger tips,And rosy knuckles, laced with yellow lace.High-crested Berthe discerns, with slant, clinched eyes,Amid the leaves pink faces of the skies;She locks her plaintive hands Sainte-Margot-wise.Ysabeau follows last, with languorous pace;Presses, voluptuous, to her bursting lips.With backward stoop, a bunch of eglantine.Courtly ladies through the orchard pass;Bow low, as in lords' halls; and springtime grassTangles a snare to catch the tapering toe.HEART'S DEMESNETO PAUL VERLAINEListen, bright lady, thy deep Pansie eyesMade never answer when my eyes did pray,Than with those quaintest looks of blank surprise.But my love longing has devised a wayTo mock thy living image, from thy hairTo thy rose toes and keep thee by alway.My garden's face is oh! so maidly fair,With limbs all tapering and with hues all fresh;Thine are the beauties all that flourish there.Amaranth, fadeless, tells me of thy flesh.Briar rose knows thy cheek, the Pink thy pout.Bunched kisses dangle from the Woodbine mesh.I love to loll, when Daisy stars peep out,And hear the music of my garden dell,Hollyhock's laughter and the Sunflowers shout.And many whisper things I dare not tell.SONG OF THE SEEDLINGTO ARTHUR SEWELL BUTTTell, little seedling, murmuring germ,Why are you joyful? What do you sing?Have you no fear of that crawling thing,Him that has so many legs? and the worm?Rain drops patter above my head—Drip, drip, drip.To moisten the mould where my roots are fed—Sip, sip, sip.No thought have I of the legged thing.Of the worm no fear,When the goal is so near;Every moment my life has run,The livelong day I've not ceased to sing:I must reach the sun, the sun.LADY EVELYNI know no Name too sweet to tell of her,For Love's sweet Sake and Domination.She hath me all; her Spell hath Power to stirMy Heart to every Lust, and spur me on.Love saith: 'tis even thus; her Will no Thrall,But Touchstone of thy Worth in Love's Armure;They only conquer in Love's Lists that fall,And Wounds renewed for Wounds are captain Cure.He doubly is inslaved that gilts his Chain,Saith Reason, chaffering for his Empire gone,Bestir, and root the Canker that hath ta'enThy Breast for Bed, and feeds thy Heart upon.I this: Sweet Love, an sweet an sour thou be,I know no Name too sweet to tell of thee.COMPLAINTTO FELIX FÉNÉONMen, women, call thee so or so;I do not know.Thou hast no nameFor me, but in my heart aflameBurns tireless, neath a silver vine.And round entwineIts purple girthAll things of fragrance and of worth.Thou shout! thou burst of light! thou throbOf pain! thou sob!Thou like a barOf some sonata, heard from farThrough blue-hue'd veils! When in these wise,To my soul's eyes,Thy shape appears,My aching hands are full of tears.A HALTING SONNETTO MISS ELLEN TERRY ON HER BIRTHDAYIt is not meet for one like me to praiseA lady, princess, goddess, artist such;For great ones crane their foreheads to her touch,To change their splendours into crowns of bays.But poets never rhyme as they are bid;Nor never see their ft goal; but aspire,With straining eyes, to some far silvern spire;Flowers among, sing to the gods cloud-hid.One of these, onetime, opened velvet eyesUpon the world—the years recall the day;Those lights still shine, conscious of power alway,But flattering men with feigned looks of surprise.The couplet is so great that, where thou art,—Thou being a poem—it is past my art.WINGS IN THE DARKTO ROBERT HARBOROUGH SHERARDForth into the warm darkness faring wide—More silent momently the silent quay—Towards where the ranks of boats rock to the tide,Muffling their plaintive gurgling jealously.With gentle nodding of her gracious snout,One greets her master till he step aboard;She flaps her wings, impatient to get out;She runs to plunder, straining every cord,Full-winged and stealthy like a bird of prey,All tense the muscles of her seemly flanks;She, the coy creature that the idle daySees idly riding in the idle ranks.Backward and forth, over the chosen ground,Like a young horse, she drags the heavy trawl,Tireless; or speeds her rapturous course unbound,And passing fishers through the darkness callDeep greeting, in the jargon of the sea.Haul upon haul, flounders and soles and dabs,And phosphorescent animalcule,Sand, seadrift, weeds, thousands of worthless crabs.Low on the mud the darkling fishes grope.Cautious to stir, staring with jewel eyes;Dogs of the sea, the savage congers mope,Winding their sulky march Meander-wise.Suddenly all is light and life and flight,Upon the sandy bottom, agate strewn.The fishers mumble, waiting till the nightUrge on the clouds, and cover up the moon.THE BARBERII dreamed I was a barber; and there wentBeneath my hand, oh! manes extravagant.Beneath my trembling fingers, many a maskOf many a pleasant girl. It was my taskTo gild their hair, carefully, strand by strand;To paint their eyebrows with a timid hand;To draw a bodkin, from a vase of kohl,Through the closed lashes; pencils from a bowlOf sepia to paint them underneath;To blow upon their eyes with a soft breath.They lay them back and watched the leaping bands.IIThe dream grew vague. I moulded with my handsThe mobile breasts, the valley; and the waistI touched; and pigments reverently placedUpon their thighs in sapient spots and stains,Beryls and crysolites and diaphanes,And gems whose hot harsh names are never said.I was a masseur; and my fingers bledWith wonder as I touched their awful limbs.IIISuddenly, in the marble trough, there seemsO, last of my pale, mistresses, Sweetness!A twylipped scarlet pansie. My caressTinges thy steelgray eyes to violet.Adown thy body skips the pit-a-patOf treatment once heard in a hospitalFor plagues that fascinate, but half appal.IVSo, at the sound, the blood of me stood cold.Thy chaste hair ripened into sullen gold.The throat, the shoulders, swelled and were uncouth.The breasts rose up and offered each a mouth.And on the belly pallid blushes crept,That maddened me, until I laughed and wept.MISHKATO HENRI TEIXEIRA DE MATTOSMishka is poet among the beasts.When roots are rotten, and rivers weep.The bear is at play in the land of sleep.Though his head be heavy between his fists.The bear is poet among the beasts.THE DREAM:Wide and large are the monster's eyes,Nought saying, save one word alone:Mishka! Mishka, as turned to stone,Hears no word else, nor in anywiseCan see aught save the monster's eyes.Honey is under the monster's lips;And Mishka follows into her lair,dragged in the net of her yellow hair,Knowing all things when honey dripsOn his tongue like rain, the song of the hipsOf the honey-child, and of each twin mound.Mishka! there screamed a far bird-note,Deep in the sky, when round his throatThe triple coil of her hair she wound.And stroked his limbs with a humming sound.Mishka is white like a hunter's sonTor he knows no more of the ancient southWhen the honey-child's lips are on his mouth,When all her kisses are joined in one,And his body is bathed in grass and sun.The shadows lie mauven beneath the trees,And purple stains, where the finches pass,Leap in the stalks of the deep, rank grass.Flutter of-wing, and the buzz of bees,Deepen the silence, and sweeten ease.The honey-child is an olive tree,The voice of birds and the voice of flowers,Each of them all and all the hours,The honey-child is a winged bee,Her touch is a perfume, a melody.SUMMER PASTTO OSCAR WILDEThere was the summer. ThereWarm hours of leaf-lipped song,And dripping amber sweat.O sweet to seeThe great trees condescend to cast a pearlDown to the myrtles; and the proud leaves curlIn ecstasy.Fruit of a quest, despair.Smart of a sullen wrong.Where may they hide them yet?One hour, yet one,To find the mossgod lurking in his nest,To see the naiads' floating hair, caressedBy fragrant sun.Beams. Softly lulled the evesThe song-tired birds to sleep,That other things might tellTheir secrecies.The beetle humming neath the fallen leaves.Deep in what hollow do the stern gods keepTheir bitter silence? By what listening wellWhere holy trees,Song-set, unfurl eternally the sheenOf restless green?THE VINESTO ANDRÉ CHEVRILLON"Have you seen the listening snake?"bramble clutches for his bride,Lately she was by his side,Woodbine, with her gummy hands.In the ground the mottled snakeListens for the dawn of day;Listens, listening death away,Till the day burst winter's bands.Painted ivy is asleep,Stretched upon the bank, all torn,Sinewy though she be; love-lornConvolvuluses cease to creep.Bramble clutches for his bride,Woodbine, with her gummy hands,All his horny claws expands;She has withered in his grasp."Till the day dawn, till the tideOf the winter's afternoon.""Who tells dawning?"—"Listen, soon."Half born tendrils, grasping, gasp.Je pleure dans les coins; je n'ai plus goût à rien;Oh! j'ai tant pleuré, Dimanche, en mon paroissien!JULES LAFORGUEDid we not, Darling, you and I,Walk on the earth like other men?Did we not walk and wonder whyThey spat upon us so. And thenWe lay us down among fresh earthySweet flowers breaking overhead,Sore needed rest for our frail girth,For our frail hearts; a well-sought bed.So Spring came, and spread daffodils;Summer, and fluffy bees sang on;The fluffy bee knows us, and fillsHis house with sweet to think upon.Deep in the dear dust, Dear, we dream,Our melancholy is a thingAt last our own; and none esteemHow our black lips are blackening.And none note how our poor eyes fall,Nor how our cheeks are sunk and sere . . .Dear, when you waken, will you call? . . .Alas! we are not very near.Ainsi, elle viendrait à moi! les yeux bien fous!Et elle me suivrait avec cet air partout!TO E. M. G.Lean back, and press the pillow deep,Heart's dear demesne, dear Daintiness;Close your tired eyes, but not to sleep . . .How very pale your pallor is!You smile, your cheek's voluptuous lineMelts in your dimpled saucy cave.Your hairbraids seem a wilful vine,Scorning to imitate a wave.Your voice is tenebrous, as ifAn angel mocked a blackbird's pipe.You are my magic orchard feoff,Where bud and fruit are always ripe.O apple garden! all the daysAre fain to crown the darling year,Ephemeral bells and garland bays,Shy blade and lusty, bursting ear.In every kiss I call you mine,Tell me, my dear, how pure, how braveOur child will be! what velvet eyne,What bonny hair our child will have!CROCUSES IN GRASSTO CHARLES HAZELWOOD SHANNONPurple and white the crocus flowers,And yellow, spread uponThe sober lawn; the hoursAre not more idle in the sun.Perhaps one droops a prettier head,And one would say: Sweet Queen,Your lips are white and red,And round you lies the grass most green.And she, perhaps, for whom is fainThe other, will not heed;Or, that he may complain,Babbles, for dalliaunce, with a weed.And he dissimulates despair,And anger, and suprise;The while white daisies stare—And stir not—with their yellow eyes.POEMTO ARTHUR EDMONDSGeranium, houseleek, laid in oblong bedsOn the trim grass. The daisies' leprous stainIs fresh. Each night the daisies burst again,Though every day the gardener crops their heads.A wistful child, in foul unwholesome shreds,Recalls some legend of a daisy chainThat makes a pretty necklace. She would fainMake one, and wear it, if she had some threads.Sun, leprous flowers, foul child. The asphalt burns.The garrulous sparrows perch on metal Burns.Sing! Sing! they say, and flutter with their wings.He does not sing, he only wonders whyHe is sitting there. The sparrows sing. And IYield to the strait allure of simple things.ON A PICTURETO PIERRE LOUŸSNot pale, as one in sleep or holier death,Nor illcontent the lady seems, nor lothTo lie in shadow of shrill river growth,So steadfast are the river's arms beneath.Pale petals follow her in very faith,Unmixed with pleasure or regret, and bothHer maidly hands look up, in noble slothTo take the blossoms of her scattered wreath.No weakest ripple lives to kiss her throat.Nor dies in meshes of untangled hair;No movement stirs the floor of river moss.Until some furtive glimmer gleam acrossVoluptuous mouth, where even teeth are bare,And gild the broidery of her petticoat. . . .PARSIFAL IMITATED FROM THE FRENCHOF PAUL VERLAINEConquered the flower-maidens, and the wide embraceOf their round proffered arms, that tempt the virgin boy;Conquered the trickling of their babbling tongues; the coyBack glances, and the mobile breasts of subtle grace;Conquered the Woman Beautiful, the fatal charmOf her hot breast, the music of her babbling tongue;Conquered the gate of Hell, into the gate the youngMan passes, with the heavy trophy at his arm,The holy Javelin that pierced the Heart of God.He heals the dying king, he sits upon the throne,King, and high priest of that great gift, the living Blood.In robe of gold the youth adores the glorious SignOf the green goblet, worships the mysterious Wine.And oh! the chime of children's voices in the dome.A CRUCIFIXTO ERNEST DOWSONA gothic church. At one end of an aisle,Against a wall where mystic sunbeams smileThrough painted windows, orange, blue, and gold,The Christ's unutterable charm behold.Upon the cross, adorned with gold and green,Long fluted golden tongues of sombre sheen,Like four flames joined in one, around the headAnd by the outstretched arms, their glory spread.The statue is of wood; of natural sizeTinted; one almost sees before one's eyesThe last convulsion of the lingering breath."Behold the man!" Robust and frail. BeneathThat breast indeed might throb the Sacred Heart.And from the lips, so holily dispart,The dying murmur breathes "Forgive! Forgive!"O wide-stretched arms! "I perish, let them live."Under the torture of the thorny crown,The loving pallor of the brow looks downOn human blindness, on the toiler's woes;The while, to overturn Despair's repose,And urge to Hope and Love, as Faith demands,Bleed, bleed the feet, the broken side, the hands.A poet, painter, Christian,—it was a friendOf mine—his attributes most fitly blend—Who saw this marvel, made an exquisiteCopy; and, knowing how I worshipped it,Forgot it, in my room, by accident.I write these verses in acknowledgment.LE CHEVALIER MALHEURGrim visor'd cavalier!Rides silently MISCHANCE.Stabbed is my dying heartof his unpitying lance.My poor hearts blood leaps forth,a single crimson jet.The hot sun licks it upwhere petals pale are wet.Deep shadow seals my sight,one shriek my lips has fed.With a wrung, sullen shuddermy poor heart is dead.The cavalier dismounts;and, kneeling on the ground,His finger iron-mailedhe thrusts into the wound.Suddenly, at the freezing touch,the iron smart,At once within me burstsa new, a noble heart.Suddenly, as the steelinto the wound is pressed,A heart all beautifuland young throbs in my breast.Trembling, incredulousI sat; but ill at ease,As one who, in a holy trance,strange visions sees.While the good cavalier,remounted on his horse,Left me a parting nodas he retook his course,And shouted to me(still I hear his cries):"Once only can the miracleavail.—Be wise!"SPLEENThe roses every one were red,And all the ivy leaves were black.Sweet, do not even stir your head,Or all of my despairs come back.The sky is too blue, too delicate:Too soft the air, too green the sea.I fear—-how long had I to wait!—That you will tear yourself from me.The shining box-leaves weary me,The varnished holly's glistening,The stretch of infinite country;So, saving you, does everything.CLAIR DE LUNEHow like a well-kept garden is your soul,With bergomask and solemn minuet!Playing upon the lute! The dancers seemBut sad, beneath their strange habiliments.While, in the minor key, their songs extolThe victor Love, and life's sweet blandishments,Their looks belie the burden of their lays,The songs that mingle with the still moon-beams.So strange, so beautiful, the pallid rays;Making the birds among the branches dream,And sob with ecstasy the slender jets,The fountains tall that leap upon the lawnsAmid the garden gods, the marble fauns.MON DIEU M'A DIT: . . .God has spoken: Love me,son, thou must; Oh seeMy broken side; my heart,its rays refulgent shine;My feet, insulted, stabbed,that Mary bathes with brineOf bitter tears my sad arms,helpless, son, for thee;With thy sins heavy; and my hands;thou seest the rod;Thou seest the nails, the sponge,the gall; and all my painMust teach thee love, amidst a worldwhere flesh doth reign,My flesh alone, my blood,my voice, the voice of God,Say, have I not loved thee,loved thee to death,O brother in my Father,in the Spirit son?Say, as the word is written,is my work not done?Thy deepest woe have I not sobbedwith struggling breath?Has not thy sweat of anguished nightsfrom all my pores in painOf blood dripped, piteous friend,who seekest me in vain?GREENLeaves and branches, flowers and fruits are here;And here my heart, which throbs alone for thee.Ah! do not wound my heart with those two dearWhite hands, but take the poor gift tenderly.I come, all covered with the dews of nightThe morning breeze has pearled upon my face.Let my fatigue, at thy feet, in thy sight,Dream through the moments of its sweet solace.With thy late kisses ringing, let my headRoll in blest indolence on thy young breast;To lull the tempest thy caresses bred,And soothe my senses with a little rest.FLEURS. IMITATED FROM THE FRENCHOF STEPHANE MALLARMÉThe tawny iris—oh! the slim-necked swan;And, sign of exiled souls, the bay divine;Ruddy as seraph's heel its fleckless sheen,Blushing the brightness of a trampled dawn.The hyacinth; the myrtle's sweet alarm;Like to a woman's flesh, the cruel rose,Blossom'd Herodiade of the garden close,Fed with ferocious dew of blooddrops warm.Thou mad'st the lilies' pallor, nigh to swoon.Which, rolling billows of deep sighs upon,Through the blue incense of horizons wan,Creeps dreamily towards the weeping moon.Praise in the censers, praise upon the gong,Madone! from the garden of our woes:On eves celestial throb the echo long!Ecstatic visions! radiance of haloes!Mother creatrice! in thy strong, just womb,Challices nodding the not distant strife;Great honey'd blossoms, a balsamic tombFor weary poets blanched with starless life.CHARLEVILLE. IMITATED FROM THE FRENCHOF ARTHUR RIMBAUDTO FRANK HARRISThe square, with gravel paths and shabby lawns.Correct, the trees and flowers repress their yawns.The tradesman brings his favourite conceit,To air it, while he stifles with the heat.In the kiosk, the military band.The shakos nod the time of the quadrilles.The flaunting dandy strolls about the stand.The notary, half unconscious of his seals.On the green seats, small groups of grocermen,Absorbed, their sticks scooping a little holeUpon the path, talk market prices; thenTake up a cue: I think, upon the whole. . . .The loutish roughs are larking on the grass.The sentimental trooper, with a roseBetween his teeth, seeing a baby, growsMore tender, with an eye upon the nurse.Unbuttoned, like a student, I followA couple of girls along the chesnut row.They know I am following, for they turn and laugh,Half impudent, half shy, inviting chaff.I do not say a word. I only stareAt their round, fluffy necks. I follow whereThe shoulders drop; I struggle to defineThe subtle torso's hesitating line.Only my rustling tread, deliberate, slow;The rippled silence from the still leaves drips.They think I am an idiot, they speak low;— I feel faint kisses creeping on my lips.SENSATIONI walk the alleys trampled through the wheat,Through whole blue summer eves, on velvet grass.Dreaming, I feel the dampness at my feet;The breezes bathe my naked head and pass.I do not think a single thought, nor sayA word; but in my soul the mists upcurlOf infinite love. I will go far awayWith nature, happily, as with a girl.À UNE MADONE. IMITATED FROM THE FRENCHOF CHARLES BAUDELAIREMadone! my lady, I will build for theeA grotto altar of my misery.Deep will I scoop, where darkest lies my heart,Far from the world's cupidity apart,A niche, with mercy stained, and streaked with gold,Where none thy statue's wonder may behold.Then, for thy head, I will fashion a tiar,A filigree of verse, with many a starOf crystal rhyme its heavy folds upon.And jealousy, O mortal! my Madone,Shall cut for thee a gown, of dreadful guise,Which like a portcullis, shall veil thy thighs;Rude, heavy curtain, faced with bitter fears,Broidered, in place of pearls, with all my tears.And, of my worship, shoes will I design;Two satin shoes, to case thy feet divine,Which, while their precious freight they softly hold,Shall guard the imprint in a faithful mould.If I should fail to forge a silver moon,I with my art, for thee to tread upon,Then will I place the writhing beast that hangsUpon my heart, and tears it with his fangs,Where thou may'st crush his head, and smile supreme,O majesty! all potent to redeem.And all my thoughts, like candles, shalt thou seebefore thine altar spread, Star of the Sea!Starring thine azure roof with points of fire.With nought hut thee to cherish and admire,So shall my soul in plaintive fumes ariseOf incense ever to thy pitying eyes.Last, that indeed a Mary thou may'st be,And that my love be mixed with cruelty—O foul voluptuousness! when I have madeOf every deadly sin a deadlier blade,Torturer filled with pain will I draw nearThe target of thy breast, and, sick with fear,Deliberately plant them all where throbsThy bleeding heart, and stifling with its sobs.FEMMES DAMNÉESLike moody beasts they lie along the sands;,Look where the sky against the sea-rim clings:Foot stretches out to foot, and groping handsHave languors soft and bitter shudderings.Some, smitten hearts with the long secrecies,On velvet moss, deep in their bowers' ease,Prattling the love of timid infancies,Are tearing the green bark from the young trees.Others, like sisters, slowly walk and grave;By rocks that swarm with ghostly legions,Where Anthony saw surging on the wavesThe purple breasts of his temptations,Some, by the light of crumbling, resinous gums,In the still hollows of old pagan dens,Call thee in aid to their deliriumsO Bacchus! cajoler of ancient pains.And those whose breasts for scapulars are fainNurse under their long robes the cruel thong.These, in dim woods, where huddling shadows throng.Mix with the foam of pleasure tears of pain.LE VOYAGE À CYTHÈREBird-like, my heart was glad to soar and vault;Fluttering among the cordages; and onThe vessel flew, under an empty vault:An angel drunken of a radiant sun.Tell me, what is that gray, that sombre isle?'Tis Cythera, famed on many a poet string;A name that has not lacked the slavering smile;But now, you see, it is not much to sing.Isle of soft whispers, tremours of the heart!The splendid phantom of thy rude goddessFloats on thy seas like breath of spikenard,Charging men's souls with love and lusciousness.Sweet isle of myrtles, once of open blooms:Now only of lean lands most lean: it seemsA flinty desert bitter with shrill screams:But one strange object on its horror looms.Not a fair temple, foiled with coppiced trees,Where the young priestess, mistress of the flowers,Goes opening her gown to the cool breeze,To still the fire, the torment that devours.But as along the shore we skirted, nearEnough to scare the birds with our white sails,We saw a three-limbed gibbet rising sheer.Detached against the sky in spare details.Perched on their pasturage, ferocious fowlRiddled with rage a more than putrid roast;Each of them stabbing, like a tool, his foulBeak in the oozing members of his host.Below, a troop of jealous quadrupeds,Looking aloft with eye and steadfast snout;A larger beast above the others' heads,A hangman with his porters round about.The eyes, two caves; and from the rotten paunch,Its freight, too heavy, streamed along the haunch,Hang for these harpies' hideous delight,Poor rag of flesh, torn of thy sex and sight!Cythera's child, child of so sweet a sky!Silent thou bearest insult—as we must—In expiation of what faults denyThee even a shallow shelter in the dust.Ludicrous sufferer! thy woes are mine.There came, at seeing of thy dangling limbs,Up to my lips, like vomiting, the streamsOf ancient miseries, of gall and brine.Before thee, brother in my memory fresh!I felt the mangling of the appetitesOf the black panthers, of the savage kites,That were so fain to rend and pick my flesh.The sea was sleeping. Blue and beautifulThe sky. Henceforth I saw but murk and blood,Alas! and as it had been in a shroud,My heart lay buried in that parable,All thine isle showed me, Venus! was upthrust,A symbol calvary where my image hung.Give me, Lord God, to look upon that dung,My body and my heart, without disgust.
SILVERPOINTS
BY
JOHN GRAY
LONDON M.DCCC.XC.IIIELKIN MATHEWS ANDJOHN LANE. AT THESIGN OF THE BODLEYHEAD IN VIGO STREET
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
. . . EN COMPOSANT DES ACROSTICHES INDOLENTSP.V.
LES DEMOISELLES DE SAUVE
TO S. A. S. ALICE, PRINCESSE DE MONACO
Beautiful ladies through the orchard pass;Bend under crutched-up branches, forked and low;Trailing their samet palls o'er dew-drenched grass.
Pale blossoms, looking on proud Jacqueline,Blush to the colour of her finger tips,And rosy knuckles, laced with yellow lace.
High-crested Berthe discerns, with slant, clinched eyes,Amid the leaves pink faces of the skies;She locks her plaintive hands Sainte-Margot-wise.
Ysabeau follows last, with languorous pace;Presses, voluptuous, to her bursting lips.With backward stoop, a bunch of eglantine.
Courtly ladies through the orchard pass;Bow low, as in lords' halls; and springtime grassTangles a snare to catch the tapering toe.
HEART'S DEMESNE
TO PAUL VERLAINE
Listen, bright lady, thy deep Pansie eyesMade never answer when my eyes did pray,Than with those quaintest looks of blank surprise.
But my love longing has devised a wayTo mock thy living image, from thy hairTo thy rose toes and keep thee by alway.
My garden's face is oh! so maidly fair,With limbs all tapering and with hues all fresh;Thine are the beauties all that flourish there.
Amaranth, fadeless, tells me of thy flesh.Briar rose knows thy cheek, the Pink thy pout.Bunched kisses dangle from the Woodbine mesh.
I love to loll, when Daisy stars peep out,And hear the music of my garden dell,Hollyhock's laughter and the Sunflowers shout.
And many whisper things I dare not tell.
SONG OF THE SEEDLING
TO ARTHUR SEWELL BUTT
Tell, little seedling, murmuring germ,Why are you joyful? What do you sing?Have you no fear of that crawling thing,Him that has so many legs? and the worm?
Rain drops patter above my head—Drip, drip, drip.To moisten the mould where my roots are fed—Sip, sip, sip.No thought have I of the legged thing.Of the worm no fear,When the goal is so near;Every moment my life has run,The livelong day I've not ceased to sing:I must reach the sun, the sun.
LADY EVELYN
I know no Name too sweet to tell of her,For Love's sweet Sake and Domination.She hath me all; her Spell hath Power to stirMy Heart to every Lust, and spur me on.Love saith: 'tis even thus; her Will no Thrall,But Touchstone of thy Worth in Love's Armure;They only conquer in Love's Lists that fall,And Wounds renewed for Wounds are captain Cure.He doubly is inslaved that gilts his Chain,Saith Reason, chaffering for his Empire gone,Bestir, and root the Canker that hath ta'enThy Breast for Bed, and feeds thy Heart upon.
I this: Sweet Love, an sweet an sour thou be,I know no Name too sweet to tell of thee.
COMPLAINT
TO FELIX FÉNÉON
Men, women, call thee so or so;I do not know.Thou hast no nameFor me, but in my heart aflame
Burns tireless, neath a silver vine.And round entwineIts purple girthAll things of fragrance and of worth.
Thou shout! thou burst of light! thou throbOf pain! thou sob!Thou like a barOf some sonata, heard from far
Through blue-hue'd veils! When in these wise,To my soul's eyes,Thy shape appears,My aching hands are full of tears.
A HALTING SONNET
TO MISS ELLEN TERRY ON HER BIRTHDAY
It is not meet for one like me to praiseA lady, princess, goddess, artist such;For great ones crane their foreheads to her touch,To change their splendours into crowns of bays.But poets never rhyme as they are bid;Nor never see their ft goal; but aspire,With straining eyes, to some far silvern spire;Flowers among, sing to the gods cloud-hid.One of these, onetime, opened velvet eyesUpon the world—the years recall the day;Those lights still shine, conscious of power alway,But flattering men with feigned looks of surprise.
The couplet is so great that, where thou art,—Thou being a poem—it is past my art.
WINGS IN THE DARK
TO ROBERT HARBOROUGH SHERARD
Forth into the warm darkness faring wide—More silent momently the silent quay—Towards where the ranks of boats rock to the tide,Muffling their plaintive gurgling jealously.
With gentle nodding of her gracious snout,One greets her master till he step aboard;She flaps her wings, impatient to get out;She runs to plunder, straining every cord,
Full-winged and stealthy like a bird of prey,All tense the muscles of her seemly flanks;She, the coy creature that the idle daySees idly riding in the idle ranks.
Backward and forth, over the chosen ground,Like a young horse, she drags the heavy trawl,Tireless; or speeds her rapturous course unbound,And passing fishers through the darkness call
Deep greeting, in the jargon of the sea.Haul upon haul, flounders and soles and dabs,And phosphorescent animalcule,Sand, seadrift, weeds, thousands of worthless crabs.
Low on the mud the darkling fishes grope.Cautious to stir, staring with jewel eyes;Dogs of the sea, the savage congers mope,Winding their sulky march Meander-wise.
Suddenly all is light and life and flight,Upon the sandy bottom, agate strewn.The fishers mumble, waiting till the nightUrge on the clouds, and cover up the moon.
THE BARBERI
I dreamed I was a barber; and there wentBeneath my hand, oh! manes extravagant.Beneath my trembling fingers, many a maskOf many a pleasant girl. It was my taskTo gild their hair, carefully, strand by strand;To paint their eyebrows with a timid hand;To draw a bodkin, from a vase of kohl,Through the closed lashes; pencils from a bowlOf sepia to paint them underneath;To blow upon their eyes with a soft breath.They lay them back and watched the leaping bands.
The dream grew vague. I moulded with my handsThe mobile breasts, the valley; and the waistI touched; and pigments reverently placedUpon their thighs in sapient spots and stains,Beryls and crysolites and diaphanes,And gems whose hot harsh names are never said.I was a masseur; and my fingers bledWith wonder as I touched their awful limbs.
Suddenly, in the marble trough, there seemsO, last of my pale, mistresses, Sweetness!A twylipped scarlet pansie. My caressTinges thy steelgray eyes to violet.Adown thy body skips the pit-a-patOf treatment once heard in a hospitalFor plagues that fascinate, but half appal.
So, at the sound, the blood of me stood cold.Thy chaste hair ripened into sullen gold.The throat, the shoulders, swelled and were uncouth.The breasts rose up and offered each a mouth.And on the belly pallid blushes crept,That maddened me, until I laughed and wept.
MISHKA
TO HENRI TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS
Mishka is poet among the beasts.When roots are rotten, and rivers weep.The bear is at play in the land of sleep.Though his head be heavy between his fists.The bear is poet among the beasts.
THE DREAM:
Wide and large are the monster's eyes,Nought saying, save one word alone:Mishka! Mishka, as turned to stone,Hears no word else, nor in anywiseCan see aught save the monster's eyes.
Honey is under the monster's lips;And Mishka follows into her lair,dragged in the net of her yellow hair,Knowing all things when honey dripsOn his tongue like rain, the song of the hips
Of the honey-child, and of each twin mound.Mishka! there screamed a far bird-note,Deep in the sky, when round his throatThe triple coil of her hair she wound.And stroked his limbs with a humming sound.
Mishka is white like a hunter's sonTor he knows no more of the ancient southWhen the honey-child's lips are on his mouth,When all her kisses are joined in one,And his body is bathed in grass and sun.
The shadows lie mauven beneath the trees,And purple stains, where the finches pass,Leap in the stalks of the deep, rank grass.Flutter of-wing, and the buzz of bees,Deepen the silence, and sweeten ease.
The honey-child is an olive tree,The voice of birds and the voice of flowers,Each of them all and all the hours,The honey-child is a winged bee,Her touch is a perfume, a melody.
SUMMER PAST
TO OSCAR WILDE
There was the summer. ThereWarm hours of leaf-lipped song,And dripping amber sweat.O sweet to seeThe great trees condescend to cast a pearlDown to the myrtles; and the proud leaves curlIn ecstasy.
Fruit of a quest, despair.Smart of a sullen wrong.Where may they hide them yet?One hour, yet one,To find the mossgod lurking in his nest,To see the naiads' floating hair, caressedBy fragrant sun.
Beams. Softly lulled the evesThe song-tired birds to sleep,That other things might tellTheir secrecies.The beetle humming neath the fallen leaves.Deep in what hollow do the stern gods keepTheir bitter silence? By what listening wellWhere holy trees,
Song-set, unfurl eternally the sheenOf restless green?
THE VINES
TO ANDRÉ CHEVRILLON
"Have you seen the listening snake?"bramble clutches for his bride,Lately she was by his side,Woodbine, with her gummy hands.
In the ground the mottled snakeListens for the dawn of day;Listens, listening death away,Till the day burst winter's bands.
Painted ivy is asleep,Stretched upon the bank, all torn,Sinewy though she be; love-lornConvolvuluses cease to creep.
Bramble clutches for his bride,Woodbine, with her gummy hands,All his horny claws expands;She has withered in his grasp.
"Till the day dawn, till the tideOf the winter's afternoon.""Who tells dawning?"—"Listen, soon."Half born tendrils, grasping, gasp.
Je pleure dans les coins; je n'ai plus goût à rien;Oh! j'ai tant pleuré, Dimanche, en mon paroissien!
JULES LAFORGUE
Did we not, Darling, you and I,Walk on the earth like other men?Did we not walk and wonder whyThey spat upon us so. And then
We lay us down among fresh earthySweet flowers breaking overhead,Sore needed rest for our frail girth,For our frail hearts; a well-sought bed.
So Spring came, and spread daffodils;Summer, and fluffy bees sang on;The fluffy bee knows us, and fillsHis house with sweet to think upon.
Deep in the dear dust, Dear, we dream,Our melancholy is a thingAt last our own; and none esteemHow our black lips are blackening.
And none note how our poor eyes fall,Nor how our cheeks are sunk and sere . . .Dear, when you waken, will you call? . . .Alas! we are not very near.
Ainsi, elle viendrait à moi! les yeux bien fous!Et elle me suivrait avec cet air partout!
TO E. M. G.
Lean back, and press the pillow deep,Heart's dear demesne, dear Daintiness;Close your tired eyes, but not to sleep . . .How very pale your pallor is!
You smile, your cheek's voluptuous lineMelts in your dimpled saucy cave.Your hairbraids seem a wilful vine,Scorning to imitate a wave.
Your voice is tenebrous, as ifAn angel mocked a blackbird's pipe.You are my magic orchard feoff,Where bud and fruit are always ripe.
O apple garden! all the daysAre fain to crown the darling year,Ephemeral bells and garland bays,Shy blade and lusty, bursting ear.
In every kiss I call you mine,Tell me, my dear, how pure, how braveOur child will be! what velvet eyne,What bonny hair our child will have!
CROCUSES IN GRASS
TO CHARLES HAZELWOOD SHANNON
Purple and white the crocus flowers,And yellow, spread uponThe sober lawn; the hoursAre not more idle in the sun.
Perhaps one droops a prettier head,And one would say: Sweet Queen,Your lips are white and red,And round you lies the grass most green.
And she, perhaps, for whom is fainThe other, will not heed;Or, that he may complain,Babbles, for dalliaunce, with a weed.
And he dissimulates despair,And anger, and suprise;The while white daisies stare—And stir not—with their yellow eyes.
POEM
TO ARTHUR EDMONDS
Geranium, houseleek, laid in oblong bedsOn the trim grass. The daisies' leprous stainIs fresh. Each night the daisies burst again,Though every day the gardener crops their heads.
A wistful child, in foul unwholesome shreds,Recalls some legend of a daisy chainThat makes a pretty necklace. She would fainMake one, and wear it, if she had some threads.
Sun, leprous flowers, foul child. The asphalt burns.The garrulous sparrows perch on metal Burns.Sing! Sing! they say, and flutter with their wings.He does not sing, he only wonders whyHe is sitting there. The sparrows sing. And IYield to the strait allure of simple things.
ON A PICTURE
TO PIERRE LOUŸS
Not pale, as one in sleep or holier death,Nor illcontent the lady seems, nor lothTo lie in shadow of shrill river growth,So steadfast are the river's arms beneath.
Pale petals follow her in very faith,Unmixed with pleasure or regret, and bothHer maidly hands look up, in noble slothTo take the blossoms of her scattered wreath.
No weakest ripple lives to kiss her throat.Nor dies in meshes of untangled hair;No movement stirs the floor of river moss.
Until some furtive glimmer gleam acrossVoluptuous mouth, where even teeth are bare,And gild the broidery of her petticoat. . . .
PARSIFAL IMITATED FROM THE FRENCHOF PAUL VERLAINE
Conquered the flower-maidens, and the wide embraceOf their round proffered arms, that tempt the virgin boy;Conquered the trickling of their babbling tongues; the coyBack glances, and the mobile breasts of subtle grace;
Conquered the Woman Beautiful, the fatal charmOf her hot breast, the music of her babbling tongue;Conquered the gate of Hell, into the gate the youngMan passes, with the heavy trophy at his arm,
The holy Javelin that pierced the Heart of God.He heals the dying king, he sits upon the throne,King, and high priest of that great gift, the living Blood.
In robe of gold the youth adores the glorious SignOf the green goblet, worships the mysterious Wine.And oh! the chime of children's voices in the dome.
A CRUCIFIX
TO ERNEST DOWSON
A gothic church. At one end of an aisle,Against a wall where mystic sunbeams smileThrough painted windows, orange, blue, and gold,The Christ's unutterable charm behold.Upon the cross, adorned with gold and green,Long fluted golden tongues of sombre sheen,Like four flames joined in one, around the headAnd by the outstretched arms, their glory spread.The statue is of wood; of natural sizeTinted; one almost sees before one's eyesThe last convulsion of the lingering breath."Behold the man!" Robust and frail. BeneathThat breast indeed might throb the Sacred Heart.And from the lips, so holily dispart,The dying murmur breathes "Forgive! Forgive!"O wide-stretched arms! "I perish, let them live."Under the torture of the thorny crown,The loving pallor of the brow looks downOn human blindness, on the toiler's woes;The while, to overturn Despair's repose,And urge to Hope and Love, as Faith demands,Bleed, bleed the feet, the broken side, the hands.A poet, painter, Christian,—it was a friendOf mine—his attributes most fitly blend—Who saw this marvel, made an exquisiteCopy; and, knowing how I worshipped it,Forgot it, in my room, by accident.I write these verses in acknowledgment.
LE CHEVALIER MALHEUR
Grim visor'd cavalier!Rides silently MISCHANCE.Stabbed is my dying heartof his unpitying lance.My poor hearts blood leaps forth,a single crimson jet.The hot sun licks it upwhere petals pale are wet.Deep shadow seals my sight,one shriek my lips has fed.With a wrung, sullen shuddermy poor heart is dead.The cavalier dismounts;and, kneeling on the ground,His finger iron-mailedhe thrusts into the wound.Suddenly, at the freezing touch,the iron smart,At once within me burstsa new, a noble heart.Suddenly, as the steelinto the wound is pressed,A heart all beautifuland young throbs in my breast.Trembling, incredulousI sat; but ill at ease,As one who, in a holy trance,strange visions sees.While the good cavalier,remounted on his horse,Left me a parting nodas he retook his course,And shouted to me(still I hear his cries):"Once only can the miracleavail.—Be wise!"
SPLEEN
The roses every one were red,And all the ivy leaves were black.
Sweet, do not even stir your head,Or all of my despairs come back.
The sky is too blue, too delicate:Too soft the air, too green the sea.
I fear—-how long had I to wait!—That you will tear yourself from me.
The shining box-leaves weary me,The varnished holly's glistening,
The stretch of infinite country;So, saving you, does everything.
CLAIR DE LUNE
How like a well-kept garden is your soul,With bergomask and solemn minuet!Playing upon the lute! The dancers seemBut sad, beneath their strange habiliments.While, in the minor key, their songs extolThe victor Love, and life's sweet blandishments,Their looks belie the burden of their lays,The songs that mingle with the still moon-beams.So strange, so beautiful, the pallid rays;Making the birds among the branches dream,And sob with ecstasy the slender jets,
The fountains tall that leap upon the lawnsAmid the garden gods, the marble fauns.
MON DIEU M'A DIT: . . .
God has spoken: Love me,son, thou must; Oh seeMy broken side; my heart,its rays refulgent shine;My feet, insulted, stabbed,that Mary bathes with brineOf bitter tears my sad arms,helpless, son, for thee;
With thy sins heavy; and my hands;thou seest the rod;Thou seest the nails, the sponge,the gall; and all my painMust teach thee love, amidst a worldwhere flesh doth reign,My flesh alone, my blood,my voice, the voice of God,
Say, have I not loved thee,loved thee to death,O brother in my Father,in the Spirit son?Say, as the word is written,is my work not done?Thy deepest woe have I not sobbedwith struggling breath?Has not thy sweat of anguished nightsfrom all my pores in painOf blood dripped, piteous friend,who seekest me in vain?
GREEN
Leaves and branches, flowers and fruits are here;And here my heart, which throbs alone for thee.Ah! do not wound my heart with those two dearWhite hands, but take the poor gift tenderly.
I come, all covered with the dews of nightThe morning breeze has pearled upon my face.Let my fatigue, at thy feet, in thy sight,Dream through the moments of its sweet solace.
With thy late kisses ringing, let my headRoll in blest indolence on thy young breast;To lull the tempest thy caresses bred,And soothe my senses with a little rest.
FLEURS. IMITATED FROM THE FRENCHOF STEPHANE MALLARMÉ
The tawny iris—oh! the slim-necked swan;And, sign of exiled souls, the bay divine;Ruddy as seraph's heel its fleckless sheen,Blushing the brightness of a trampled dawn.
The hyacinth; the myrtle's sweet alarm;Like to a woman's flesh, the cruel rose,Blossom'd Herodiade of the garden close,Fed with ferocious dew of blooddrops warm.
Thou mad'st the lilies' pallor, nigh to swoon.Which, rolling billows of deep sighs upon,Through the blue incense of horizons wan,Creeps dreamily towards the weeping moon.
Praise in the censers, praise upon the gong,Madone! from the garden of our woes:On eves celestial throb the echo long!Ecstatic visions! radiance of haloes!
Mother creatrice! in thy strong, just womb,Challices nodding the not distant strife;Great honey'd blossoms, a balsamic tombFor weary poets blanched with starless life.
CHARLEVILLE. IMITATED FROM THE FRENCHOF ARTHUR RIMBAUD
TO FRANK HARRIS
The square, with gravel paths and shabby lawns.Correct, the trees and flowers repress their yawns.The tradesman brings his favourite conceit,To air it, while he stifles with the heat.
In the kiosk, the military band.The shakos nod the time of the quadrilles.The flaunting dandy strolls about the stand.The notary, half unconscious of his seals.
On the green seats, small groups of grocermen,Absorbed, their sticks scooping a little holeUpon the path, talk market prices; thenTake up a cue: I think, upon the whole. . . .
The loutish roughs are larking on the grass.The sentimental trooper, with a roseBetween his teeth, seeing a baby, growsMore tender, with an eye upon the nurse.
Unbuttoned, like a student, I followA couple of girls along the chesnut row.They know I am following, for they turn and laugh,Half impudent, half shy, inviting chaff.
I do not say a word. I only stareAt their round, fluffy necks. I follow whereThe shoulders drop; I struggle to defineThe subtle torso's hesitating line.
Only my rustling tread, deliberate, slow;The rippled silence from the still leaves drips.They think I am an idiot, they speak low;— I feel faint kisses creeping on my lips.
SENSATION
I walk the alleys trampled through the wheat,Through whole blue summer eves, on velvet grass.Dreaming, I feel the dampness at my feet;The breezes bathe my naked head and pass.
I do not think a single thought, nor sayA word; but in my soul the mists upcurlOf infinite love. I will go far awayWith nature, happily, as with a girl.
À UNE MADONE. IMITATED FROM THE FRENCHOF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
Madone! my lady, I will build for theeA grotto altar of my misery.Deep will I scoop, where darkest lies my heart,Far from the world's cupidity apart,
A niche, with mercy stained, and streaked with gold,Where none thy statue's wonder may behold.
Then, for thy head, I will fashion a tiar,A filigree of verse, with many a star
Of crystal rhyme its heavy folds upon.And jealousy, O mortal! my Madone,
Shall cut for thee a gown, of dreadful guise,Which like a portcullis, shall veil thy thighs;
Rude, heavy curtain, faced with bitter fears,Broidered, in place of pearls, with all my tears.
And, of my worship, shoes will I design;Two satin shoes, to case thy feet divine,
Which, while their precious freight they softly hold,Shall guard the imprint in a faithful mould.
If I should fail to forge a silver moon,I with my art, for thee to tread upon,
Then will I place the writhing beast that hangsUpon my heart, and tears it with his fangs,
Where thou may'st crush his head, and smile supreme,O majesty! all potent to redeem.
And all my thoughts, like candles, shalt thou seebefore thine altar spread, Star of the Sea!
Starring thine azure roof with points of fire.With nought hut thee to cherish and admire,
So shall my soul in plaintive fumes ariseOf incense ever to thy pitying eyes.
Last, that indeed a Mary thou may'st be,And that my love be mixed with cruelty—
O foul voluptuousness! when I have madeOf every deadly sin a deadlier blade,
Torturer filled with pain will I draw nearThe target of thy breast, and, sick with fear,
Deliberately plant them all where throbsThy bleeding heart, and stifling with its sobs.
FEMMES DAMNÉES
Like moody beasts they lie along the sands;,Look where the sky against the sea-rim clings:Foot stretches out to foot, and groping handsHave languors soft and bitter shudderings.
Some, smitten hearts with the long secrecies,On velvet moss, deep in their bowers' ease,Prattling the love of timid infancies,Are tearing the green bark from the young trees.
Others, like sisters, slowly walk and grave;By rocks that swarm with ghostly legions,Where Anthony saw surging on the wavesThe purple breasts of his temptations,
Some, by the light of crumbling, resinous gums,In the still hollows of old pagan dens,Call thee in aid to their deliriumsO Bacchus! cajoler of ancient pains.
And those whose breasts for scapulars are fainNurse under their long robes the cruel thong.These, in dim woods, where huddling shadows throng.Mix with the foam of pleasure tears of pain.
LE VOYAGE À CYTHÈRE
Bird-like, my heart was glad to soar and vault;Fluttering among the cordages; and onThe vessel flew, under an empty vault:An angel drunken of a radiant sun.
Tell me, what is that gray, that sombre isle?'Tis Cythera, famed on many a poet string;A name that has not lacked the slavering smile;But now, you see, it is not much to sing.
Isle of soft whispers, tremours of the heart!The splendid phantom of thy rude goddessFloats on thy seas like breath of spikenard,Charging men's souls with love and lusciousness.
Sweet isle of myrtles, once of open blooms:Now only of lean lands most lean: it seemsA flinty desert bitter with shrill screams:But one strange object on its horror looms.
Not a fair temple, foiled with coppiced trees,Where the young priestess, mistress of the flowers,Goes opening her gown to the cool breeze,To still the fire, the torment that devours.
But as along the shore we skirted, nearEnough to scare the birds with our white sails,We saw a three-limbed gibbet rising sheer.Detached against the sky in spare details.
Perched on their pasturage, ferocious fowlRiddled with rage a more than putrid roast;Each of them stabbing, like a tool, his foulBeak in the oozing members of his host.
Below, a troop of jealous quadrupeds,Looking aloft with eye and steadfast snout;A larger beast above the others' heads,A hangman with his porters round about.
The eyes, two caves; and from the rotten paunch,Its freight, too heavy, streamed along the haunch,Hang for these harpies' hideous delight,Poor rag of flesh, torn of thy sex and sight!
Cythera's child, child of so sweet a sky!Silent thou bearest insult—as we must—In expiation of what faults denyThee even a shallow shelter in the dust.
Ludicrous sufferer! thy woes are mine.There came, at seeing of thy dangling limbs,Up to my lips, like vomiting, the streamsOf ancient miseries, of gall and brine.
Before thee, brother in my memory fresh!I felt the mangling of the appetitesOf the black panthers, of the savage kites,That were so fain to rend and pick my flesh.
The sea was sleeping. Blue and beautifulThe sky. Henceforth I saw but murk and blood,Alas! and as it had been in a shroud,My heart lay buried in that parable,
All thine isle showed me, Venus! was upthrust,A symbol calvary where my image hung.Give me, Lord God, to look upon that dung,My body and my heart, without disgust.