LA FOLLE DU LOGIS
Wild wingèd thing, O brought I know not whenceTo beat your life out in my life’s low cage;You strange familiar, nearer than my fleshYet distant as a star, that were at firstA child with me a child, yet elfin-far,And visibly of some unearthly breed;Mirthfullest mate of all my mortal games,Yet shedding on them some evasive gleamOf Latmian loneliness—O even thenExpert to lift the latch of our low doorAnd profit by the hours when, dusked aboutBy human misintelligence, we madeOur first weak fledgling flights—Divine accomplice of those perilous-sweetLow moth-flights of the unadventured soulAbove the world’s dim garden!—now we sitAfter what stretch of years, what stretch of wings,In the same cage together—still as nearAnd still as strange!Only I know at lastThat we are fellows till the last night falls,And that I shall not miss your comrade handsTill they have closed my lids, and by them setA taper that—who knows?—may yet shine through.Sister, my comrade, I have ached for you,Sometimes, to see you curb your pace to mine,And bow your Maenad crest to the dull formsOf human usage; I have loosed your handAnd whispered: “Go! Since I am tethered here”;And you have turned, and breathing for reply:“I too am pinioned, as you too are free,”Have caught me to such undreamed distancesAs the last planets see, when they look forthTo the sentinel pacings of the outmost stars—Nor these alone,Comrade, my sister, were your gifts. More oftHas your impalpable wing-brush bared for meThe heart of wonder in familiar things,Unroofed dull rooms, and hung above my headThe cloudy glimpses of a vernal moon,Or all the autumn heaven ripe with stars.And you have made a secret pact with Sleep,And when she comes not, or her feet delay,Toiled in low meadows of gray asphodelUnder a pale sky where no shadows fall,Then, hooded like her, to my side you steal,And the night grows like a great rumouring sea,And you a boat, and I your passenger,And the tide lifts us with an indrawn breathOut, out upon the murmurs and the scents,Through spray of splintered star-beams, or white rageOf desperate moon-drawn waters—on and onTo some blue sea’s unalterable calmThat ever like a slow-swung mirror rocksThe balanced breasts of sea-birds....Yet other nights, my sister, you have beenThe storm, and I the leaf that fled on itTerrifically down voids that never knewThe pity of creation—till your touchHas drawn me back to earth, as, in the dusk,A scent of lilac from an unseen hedgeBespeaks the hidden farm, the bedded cows,And safety, and the sense of human kind....And I have climbed with you by secret waysTo meet the dews of morning, and have seenThe shy gods like retreating shadows fade,Or on the thymy reaches have surprisedOld Chiron sleeping, and have waked him not....Yet farther have I fared with you, and knownLove and his sacred tremors, and the ritesOf his most inward temple; and beyondHave seen the long grey waste where lonely thoughtsListen and wander where a city stood.And creeping down by waterless defilesUnder an iron midnight, have I keptMy vigil in the waste till dawn beganTo walk among the ruins, and I sawA sapling rooted in a fissured plinth,And a wren’s nest in the thunder-threatening handOf some old god of granite....
Wild wingèd thing, O brought I know not whenceTo beat your life out in my life’s low cage;You strange familiar, nearer than my fleshYet distant as a star, that were at firstA child with me a child, yet elfin-far,And visibly of some unearthly breed;Mirthfullest mate of all my mortal games,Yet shedding on them some evasive gleamOf Latmian loneliness—O even thenExpert to lift the latch of our low doorAnd profit by the hours when, dusked aboutBy human misintelligence, we madeOur first weak fledgling flights—Divine accomplice of those perilous-sweetLow moth-flights of the unadventured soulAbove the world’s dim garden!—now we sitAfter what stretch of years, what stretch of wings,In the same cage together—still as nearAnd still as strange!Only I know at lastThat we are fellows till the last night falls,And that I shall not miss your comrade handsTill they have closed my lids, and by them setA taper that—who knows?—may yet shine through.Sister, my comrade, I have ached for you,Sometimes, to see you curb your pace to mine,And bow your Maenad crest to the dull formsOf human usage; I have loosed your handAnd whispered: “Go! Since I am tethered here”;And you have turned, and breathing for reply:“I too am pinioned, as you too are free,”Have caught me to such undreamed distancesAs the last planets see, when they look forthTo the sentinel pacings of the outmost stars—Nor these alone,Comrade, my sister, were your gifts. More oftHas your impalpable wing-brush bared for meThe heart of wonder in familiar things,Unroofed dull rooms, and hung above my headThe cloudy glimpses of a vernal moon,Or all the autumn heaven ripe with stars.And you have made a secret pact with Sleep,And when she comes not, or her feet delay,Toiled in low meadows of gray asphodelUnder a pale sky where no shadows fall,Then, hooded like her, to my side you steal,And the night grows like a great rumouring sea,And you a boat, and I your passenger,And the tide lifts us with an indrawn breathOut, out upon the murmurs and the scents,Through spray of splintered star-beams, or white rageOf desperate moon-drawn waters—on and onTo some blue sea’s unalterable calmThat ever like a slow-swung mirror rocksThe balanced breasts of sea-birds....Yet other nights, my sister, you have beenThe storm, and I the leaf that fled on itTerrifically down voids that never knewThe pity of creation—till your touchHas drawn me back to earth, as, in the dusk,A scent of lilac from an unseen hedgeBespeaks the hidden farm, the bedded cows,And safety, and the sense of human kind....And I have climbed with you by secret waysTo meet the dews of morning, and have seenThe shy gods like retreating shadows fade,Or on the thymy reaches have surprisedOld Chiron sleeping, and have waked him not....Yet farther have I fared with you, and knownLove and his sacred tremors, and the ritesOf his most inward temple; and beyondHave seen the long grey waste where lonely thoughtsListen and wander where a city stood.And creeping down by waterless defilesUnder an iron midnight, have I keptMy vigil in the waste till dawn beganTo walk among the ruins, and I sawA sapling rooted in a fissured plinth,And a wren’s nest in the thunder-threatening handOf some old god of granite....
Wild wingèd thing, O brought I know not whenceTo beat your life out in my life’s low cage;You strange familiar, nearer than my fleshYet distant as a star, that were at firstA child with me a child, yet elfin-far,And visibly of some unearthly breed;Mirthfullest mate of all my mortal games,Yet shedding on them some evasive gleamOf Latmian loneliness—O even thenExpert to lift the latch of our low doorAnd profit by the hours when, dusked aboutBy human misintelligence, we madeOur first weak fledgling flights—Divine accomplice of those perilous-sweetLow moth-flights of the unadventured soulAbove the world’s dim garden!—now we sitAfter what stretch of years, what stretch of wings,In the same cage together—still as nearAnd still as strange!Only I know at lastThat we are fellows till the last night falls,And that I shall not miss your comrade handsTill they have closed my lids, and by them setA taper that—who knows?—may yet shine through.
Wild wingèd thing, O brought I know not whence
To beat your life out in my life’s low cage;
You strange familiar, nearer than my flesh
Yet distant as a star, that were at first
A child with me a child, yet elfin-far,
And visibly of some unearthly breed;
Mirthfullest mate of all my mortal games,
Yet shedding on them some evasive gleam
Of Latmian loneliness—O even then
Expert to lift the latch of our low door
And profit by the hours when, dusked about
By human misintelligence, we made
Our first weak fledgling flights—
Divine accomplice of those perilous-sweet
Low moth-flights of the unadventured soul
Above the world’s dim garden!—now we sit
After what stretch of years, what stretch of wings,
In the same cage together—still as near
And still as strange!
Only I know at last
That we are fellows till the last night falls,
And that I shall not miss your comrade hands
Till they have closed my lids, and by them set
A taper that—who knows?—may yet shine through.
Sister, my comrade, I have ached for you,Sometimes, to see you curb your pace to mine,And bow your Maenad crest to the dull formsOf human usage; I have loosed your handAnd whispered: “Go! Since I am tethered here”;And you have turned, and breathing for reply:“I too am pinioned, as you too are free,”Have caught me to such undreamed distancesAs the last planets see, when they look forthTo the sentinel pacings of the outmost stars—Nor these alone,Comrade, my sister, were your gifts. More oftHas your impalpable wing-brush bared for meThe heart of wonder in familiar things,Unroofed dull rooms, and hung above my headThe cloudy glimpses of a vernal moon,Or all the autumn heaven ripe with stars.
Sister, my comrade, I have ached for you,
Sometimes, to see you curb your pace to mine,
And bow your Maenad crest to the dull forms
Of human usage; I have loosed your hand
And whispered: “Go! Since I am tethered here”;
And you have turned, and breathing for reply:
“I too am pinioned, as you too are free,”
Have caught me to such undreamed distances
As the last planets see, when they look forth
To the sentinel pacings of the outmost stars—
Nor these alone,
Comrade, my sister, were your gifts. More oft
Has your impalpable wing-brush bared for me
The heart of wonder in familiar things,
Unroofed dull rooms, and hung above my head
The cloudy glimpses of a vernal moon,
Or all the autumn heaven ripe with stars.
And you have made a secret pact with Sleep,And when she comes not, or her feet delay,Toiled in low meadows of gray asphodelUnder a pale sky where no shadows fall,Then, hooded like her, to my side you steal,And the night grows like a great rumouring sea,And you a boat, and I your passenger,And the tide lifts us with an indrawn breathOut, out upon the murmurs and the scents,Through spray of splintered star-beams, or white rageOf desperate moon-drawn waters—on and onTo some blue sea’s unalterable calmThat ever like a slow-swung mirror rocksThe balanced breasts of sea-birds....
And you have made a secret pact with Sleep,
And when she comes not, or her feet delay,
Toiled in low meadows of gray asphodel
Under a pale sky where no shadows fall,
Then, hooded like her, to my side you steal,
And the night grows like a great rumouring sea,
And you a boat, and I your passenger,
And the tide lifts us with an indrawn breath
Out, out upon the murmurs and the scents,
Through spray of splintered star-beams, or white rage
Of desperate moon-drawn waters—on and on
To some blue sea’s unalterable calm
That ever like a slow-swung mirror rocks
The balanced breasts of sea-birds....
Yet other nights, my sister, you have beenThe storm, and I the leaf that fled on itTerrifically down voids that never knewThe pity of creation—till your touchHas drawn me back to earth, as, in the dusk,A scent of lilac from an unseen hedgeBespeaks the hidden farm, the bedded cows,And safety, and the sense of human kind....
Yet other nights, my sister, you have been
The storm, and I the leaf that fled on it
Terrifically down voids that never knew
The pity of creation—till your touch
Has drawn me back to earth, as, in the dusk,
A scent of lilac from an unseen hedge
Bespeaks the hidden farm, the bedded cows,
And safety, and the sense of human kind....
And I have climbed with you by secret waysTo meet the dews of morning, and have seenThe shy gods like retreating shadows fade,Or on the thymy reaches have surprisedOld Chiron sleeping, and have waked him not....
And I have climbed with you by secret ways
To meet the dews of morning, and have seen
The shy gods like retreating shadows fade,
Or on the thymy reaches have surprised
Old Chiron sleeping, and have waked him not....
Yet farther have I fared with you, and knownLove and his sacred tremors, and the ritesOf his most inward temple; and beyondHave seen the long grey waste where lonely thoughtsListen and wander where a city stood.And creeping down by waterless defilesUnder an iron midnight, have I keptMy vigil in the waste till dawn beganTo walk among the ruins, and I sawA sapling rooted in a fissured plinth,And a wren’s nest in the thunder-threatening handOf some old god of granite....
Yet farther have I fared with you, and known
Love and his sacred tremors, and the rites
Of his most inward temple; and beyond
Have seen the long grey waste where lonely thoughts
Listen and wander where a city stood.
And creeping down by waterless defiles
Under an iron midnight, have I kept
My vigil in the waste till dawn began
To walk among the ruins, and I saw
A sapling rooted in a fissured plinth,
And a wren’s nest in the thunder-threatening hand
Of some old god of granite....