Delphi Collected Works of Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer Illustrated E-Book

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

• Herausgeber: Delphi Publishing Ltd
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Poets Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 1025

Beschreibung

The late Romantic poet Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer is considered one of the first modern Spanish poets. His ‘Rimas’ (Rhymes) are celebrated for their sensitive, restrained and deeply subjective quality. Bécquer’s poetry tackles themes of love, disillusionment and loneliness, while exploring the mysteries of life and poetry. In contrast to the rhetorical and dramatic style of the Romantic period, Bécquer’s lyricism, in which assonance predominates, is simple and airy. The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature’s finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents Bécquer’s collected works, with related illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Bécquer’s life and works
* Concise introduction to Bécquer’s life and poetry
* Images of how the poetry was first printed, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* Multiple translations of the ‘Rimas’: Owen Innsly, 1882; Mason Carnes, 1891
* Includes the original Spanish texts, edited by Everett Ward Olmsted in 1909, with hyperlinked footnotes and a vocabulary glossary
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* Also includes Bécquer’s seminal romantic and gothic legends
* Features a bonus biography — discover Bécquer’s world

CONTENTS:

The Life and Poetry of Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
Brief Introduction: Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer (1891) by Mason Carnes
From the Spanish of Gustavo Bécquer (1882) by Owen Innsly
Poems of Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer Rendered into English Verse (1891) by Mason Carnes

The Fiction
Romantic Legends of Spain (1909)

The Spanish Texts
Legends, Tales and Poems (1909) by Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

The Biography
Life of Bécquer (1907) by Everett Ward Olmsted

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Leseprobe

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

(1836-1870)

Contents

The Life and Poetry of Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

Brief Introduction: Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer (1891) by Mason Carnes

From the Spanish of Gustavo Bécquer (1882) by Owen Innsly

Poems of Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer Rendered into English Verse (1891) by Mason Carnes

The Fiction

Romantic Legends of Spain (1909)

The Spanish Texts

Legends, Tales and Poems (1909) by Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

The Biography

Life of Bécquer (1907) by Everett Ward Olmsted

The Delphi Classics Catalogue

© Delphi Classics 2023

Version 1

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Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

By Delphi Classics, 2023

COPYRIGHT

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer - Delphi Poets Series

First published in the United Kingdom in 2023 by Delphi Classics.

© Delphi Classics, 2023.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

ISBN: 978 1 80170 109 9

Delphi Classics

is an imprint of

Delphi Publishing Ltd

Hastings, East Sussex

United Kingdom

Contact: [email protected]

www.delphiclassics.com

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NOTE

When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size and landscape mode, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.

The Life and Poetry of Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

Seville, Spain — Bécquer’s birthplace

Seville in the second half of the nineteenth century

Birthplace of Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer — Calle del Conde de Barajas, Seville

Brief Introduction: Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer (1891)by Mason Carnes

GUSTAVO ADOLFO BECQUER, the son of a celebrated painter of Seville was born in that city the 17th of February, 1836. Early left an orphan, he was educated under the care of his godmother at the school of San Antonio Abad, and afterwards at the naval school of San Telmo, where he remained but a short time. His godmother then determined to make a merchant of him, and directed his studies accordingly; but reading books was much more to his taste than keeping books, and he turned his uninteresting ledgers into sketch-books with much skill and humour. Encouraged by the success of his early verses, he determined to enter the arena of literature, and fight there for fame and fortune with an independence and strength of will astonishing in one so frail in health, so sweet and amiable in temperament. So, in 1854, against the wishes of his guardian, and sacrificing the prospects of the fortune she intended to leave him, he boldly set out for Madrid, with many hopes and little else.

Like many another similar capitalist, he soon found himself bankrupt, for his hopes dwindled away day by day as he saw his pen bringing him little more than bread and water, and that not regularly. So, finally, with his friend and future biographer and editor, Ramon Rodriguez Correa, he accepted a small post in the Department of Public Works. Always of delicate health endowed with a dreamy artistic temperament, and totally unfitted for the monotonous, deadening routine of a clerk’s life, he proved a poor public servant, and was politely dismissed with a small pension.

Attacked by a terrible malady, with poverty in his home and death at his door, he struggled bravely on, writing for El Contemporâneo his most famous prose work, “Cartas desde mi celda,” numberless stories, learned essays on architecture, of which he was passionately fond, translations, and even political and critical articles, in which the correctness of his taste and the excellence of his judgment were often nullified by the goodness of his heart.

In 1862 his brother Valeriano, having made some success as a painter in Seville, came to Madrid to live with him. They joined their forces against misfortunes and disappointments, and fought with courage, with even hope. While making ill-paid sketches, Valeriano dreamed of being able some day to buy canvases on which to paint his large conceptions; and Gustavo, toiling over the translation of an insipid novel, would long for time to give form to the magnificent ideas with which his fertile brain teemed, and which he feared — alas! too truly — would descend into the grave with him, unuttered and lost for ever.

A day of respite and of joy came at last, but death followed quickly in its wake, for in September, 1870, Valeriano died. From this shock poor Gustavo never recovered, and on the 22nd of the following December he breathed his last sigh.

After his death his prose works and his “Rimas,” with an introduction by Correa, were published by subscription for the benefit of widows and orphans; and these two volumes are all that were left by the fecund brain that had conceived and planned in detail a marvellously long list of plays, stories, essays, and poems.

Patient and uncomplaining with his friends, he unburdened himself in poetry, pouring forth all his sorrows and longings in his “Rimas,” which alone have gained for him an undying fame in his own country. For the sadness, beauty, passion, and originality of these lyrics, Bécquer has been compared frequently with Heine and de Musset; and Correa especially calls attention to the likeness of the “Rimas” to the “Intermezzo” of Heine, inasmuch as each may be regarded as one poem, embodying the joys (few enough with poor Bécquer), the sufferings, the aspirations, and the life of a poet.

M. C.

Bécquer, aged 19

Bécquer’s muse, Julia Espín y Pérez de Collbrand (1838-1906), was a Spanish opera singer, daughter of the composer Joaquín Espín y Guillén.

Bécquer’s loyal benefactor, Luis González Bravo (1811-1871), a politician, diplomat and intellectual author, who served twice as prime minister of Spain.

Title page of Bécquer’s ‘Obras’, 1871, first edition

Daguerreotype of Bécquer by Jean Laurent, 1865

From the Spanish of Gustavo Bécquer (1882) by Owen Innsly

CONTENTS

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

Autograph of Bécquer’s famous ‘Rima XXVII’

I.

LIKE the breeze that dries the bloodUpon the darkening battle-field,Laden with perfumes and sweet sounds,In the vague silence of the night

Symbol of tenderness and grief,The English bard in awful verseThe sweet Ophelia paints, who, mad,Passes with flowers and with song.

II.

Sometimes I meet her in “the world,”She passes close to me:She passes smiling and I say:   How can she laugh?

Then to my lips rises another smile, —   It is the mask of pain, — And then I think; — Perhaps she only laughs  As I do now!

III.

I ventured to the deepest depths  Of earth and of the heavens,And saw their bounds; or with my eyes,  Or with my spirit’s eye.

But ah! a heart’s abyss I reached,  And over bent to see,But both my soul and eyes recoiled,  So deep it was, so black!

IV.

Why, my child, are thine eyes green?Green as the sea, thou complainest.Green are the eyes of the Naiads,Green are those of Minerva,And green, too, are the eyesOf the houris of the prophet.

Green is the gala garmentOf the groves in Springtime;Among its seven colors,Brilliant, the rainbow shows it.Green are emeralds also;Who hopes has green for his colorAnd green are the waves of Ocean,

V.

I am dark and I am ardent,The symbol of passion am I;Filled is my soul with desire of joy,Me art thou calling? Oh! no, not thee.

My brow is pale, my tresses are golden,I can pour out on thee endless delight;I keep a treasure of tenderness,Me art thou calling? Oh! no, not thee.

I am a dream, I am the Impossible,Vain phantasm of mist and light;Bodiless am I, I am intangible,I cannot love thee, — Oh! come, come, thou!

VI.

Her hand between my hands,Her eyes upon my eyes,Her head so amorouslyResting upon my shoulder,God knows how many timesWith lagging footsteps,We have wandered togetherBeneath the lofty elm-treesThat to her dwelling’s entranceLent mystery and shade.And yesterday — hardlyA year passed like a breath,With what exquisite grace,With what admirable aplombShe said, when an officiousFriend had presented us:“It seems to me that somewhereI have seen you.” Oh! ye fools,Gossips of drawing-rooms,Who go about in searchOf gallant embroglios,What a story you have lost!

How savory were this food,To be devoured in chorus,Sotto voce behind the fanOf feathers and of gold!

Oh! moon discreet and chaste!Leafy and lofty elm-trees!Walls of her dwelling,Threshold of her portal,Be silent! let the secretGo not forth from you!Be silent, since for my part,I have forgotten all.And she — she — there is no maskEqual to her face.

VII.

When o’er thy breast thou bendest  Thy melancholy brow,A bruised and broken lily  Thou seem’st to me.

For giving thee the purity  Whose symbol the lily is,As He made it, so God made thee  Of gold and snow.

VIII.

Know, if at times thy ruby lipsAn unseen fire doth burn—The soul that with the eyes can speak,Can just as well kiss with a look.

IX.

First Voice.

Waves have a gentle harmony,Violets have an odor sweet,And silver mists the cool night has,Light and gold the day.Better still have I — For I have Love!

Second Voice.

Applauding voices, radiant clouds,Breath envious, though the foot it kiss,An isle of dreams where lies reposeFor anxious souls,Sweet drunkennessThis — Glory is.

Third Voice.

A burning coal all glory is,Vanity a shadow that flies,All is falsehood, glory, gold;What I adoreAlone is truth — ’Tis Liberty!

Thus the mariners passed by singingThe eternal song:And the foam the oars threw upwardsFell, and smote the shore.

Wilt thou come? they cried; and, smiling,Past I let them go.Once I went; still, I am certainMy clothes are drying on the sands.

X.

As from a wound one tears the steel,I tore my love out of my heart,Although I felt that life itselfI tore away with it.

And from the altar I had raisedWithin my soul, her image cast.The lamp of faith that in it burned,Went out before the empty shrine.

Though firm to fight I undertake,Visions of her still fill my mind;When shall I sleep and dream the dreamIn which all dreaming ends!

XI.

In the salon’s dark corner,Forgotten, sometimes, by its master,Covered with dust, and silent,   The harp is seen.

In its chords, how many notes slumber,As the birds sleep in the branches,Expecting the hand of snow   That may awake them!

Ah! I thought, how often does geniusSleep thus in the depths of the soul,And, like Lazarus, waits for a voiceThat shall bid it: “Arise and walk!”

XII.

She passed along enveloped in her beauty,  I let her pass me by;I did not even turn to look at her, and yetAt my ear something murmured: “It is she.”

Who was’t who joined the evening to the morning?   I know not, but I knewThat in a brief and fleeting summer nightTwo twilights were united, and— “if was.”

XIII.

Why do you tell me? I know she is changeable,   Haughty and vain and capricious, too.Rather than feeling from her soul,   Water will flow from the sterile rock.

I know that her heart is a nest of serpents,That no fibre it owns that responds to love.She’s an inanimate statue, but ah!   She’s so beautiful!

XIV.

She wounded me from a dark hiding place,And with a kiss she sealed her treachery;She put her arms around my neck, and thro’My shoulder, in cold blood she pierced my heart.

And joyously she goes upon her way,Undaunted, happy, smiling; why? you ask?Because no blood is flowing from the wound,Because the dead man stands erect.

XV.

As the miser guards his treasure,   Guarded I my grief;I would prove that something is eternalTo her who swore to me eternal love.

But to-day I seek it vainly, hearing   Time who slew it, say:Oh! miserable clay, eternally   Thou canst not even suffer.

XVI.

The invisible atoms of the airPalpitate ‘round me, all on fire;The heavens break up in rays of gold,And the earth trembles with delight.There floats on waves of harmonyThe sound of kisses and beating wings.My eyelids close — oh! what is happening?    ’Tis love that passes.

XVII.

Whene’er the fleeting moments of the pastMy love and I recall,Trembling there shines upon her lashes darkA tear about to fall.

At last it falls, and like a dewdrop rolls,As we think, she and I,That as to-day for yesterday, to-morrowWe for to-day shall sigh.

XVIII.

Sighs are air and go to the air.Tears are water and go to the sea.Tell me, woman, when love is forgotten,   Knowest thou whither it goes?

XIX.

Thine eye is blue, and when thou laugh’st,Its gentle light recalls to meThe morning’s tremulous brilliancyReflected in the sea.

Thine eye is blue and when thou weep’stThe shining tears thine eye that wetSeem to me like the drops of dewUpon a violet.

Thine eye is blue, and when a thoughtIlluming in its depths doth lie,It sees a lost and wandering starWithin the evening sky.

XX.

Dost thou wish that of this nectar deliciousThe dregs shall not be bitter?Oh, breathe it in, close to thy lips approach it,And leave it then.

Dost thou wish we may ever keep a gentleMemory of this love?Let us love much to-day and then to-morrowLet us say: “Farewell.”

XXI.

In the shining of a lightning flash our birth is,And still endures its brilliance when we die;   So short is living!

The glory and the love that we run afterAre shadows of a dream that we pursue,   To wake is dying!

XXII.

How lives this rose, I pray that thou hast gathered,  Thus resting on thy heart?Never before on earth did I contemplate  On the volcano the flower.

XXIII.

To-day the earth and the heavens smile on meTo-day the sun strikes to my inmost soul;To-day I saw her — saw her — she looked at me   To-day I believe in God!

XXIV.

The night came on, no refuge did I find;  I was athirst; my tears I drank;I was an-hungered and my swollen eyes  I closed, that I might die.

I stood within a desert! Yet my earWas wounded by hoarse clamor of the crowds.I was an orphan, poor, — the world around   A desert was for me.

XXV.

For a look, a world;For a smile, a heaven;For a kiss — I know notWhat I would give thee for a kiss!

XXVI.

What is poetry? thou say’st, and meanwhile fixestOn my eye thine eye of deepest blue;What is poetry? And canst thou ask it?  Why, — poetry — is — thou!

XXVII.

A tear was trembling in her eyes,And on my lips a pardoning word;Pride spoke — straightway her tear was dried,And on my lips the word expired.

I go one way, another she;But thinking on our mutual love,I say: Why was I silent then?And she will say: Why wept not I?

XXVIII.

Gigantic waves that thundering breakUpon remote and desert shores, — Wrapped in the sheet of hurrying foam,   Bear me away with you!

Tempestuous gusts that sweep awayFrom the tall grove the withered leaves, — In the blind whirlwind dragged along,  Bear me away with you!

Storm-clouds that break the ray of lightAnd blind with fire its loosened fringe, — Snatched swiftly in the darkening mist,   Bear me away with you!

Bear me away in pity, whereMadness effaces memory.Bear me away! I fear to stay   Here with my grief alone.

XXIX.

As in an open book I readWithin the depths of thy dear eyes;Why should the lips attempt to feignSmiles that the eyes refute?

Weep! to confess be not ashamedThat thou a little loved me once,Weep! for now no one looks at us,See, I am a man and yet I weep.

XXX.

I put the light aside, and on the edgeOf the disordered bed I sat me down,Mute, sombre, with my eyes immovably   Fastened upon the wall.

How long did I stay thus? I know not: passedThe dread intoxication of my grief,The light was going out, and lo! the sun   Laughed on my balcony.

Nor do I know, during those awful hours,Of what I thought or what took place in me;I but remember that I wept and cursed,And that within that night-time I grew old.

XXXI.

A question ’tis of words, and notwithstanding   Never shall you and IAgree together after what has happened   With whom the fault may lie.

Pity love has no dictionary   Wherein one might seeWhen pride is nothing else than pride alone,  And when ’tis dignity!

XXXII.

Thou wast the hurricane and I the tower,Lofty, defiant of thy power o’er me;Thou must have spent thyself or overturned me; —    It could not be!

Thou wast the ocean, I the rock erectThat firm awaits the great sea’s ebb and flow;Thou must have broken thyself or overwhelmed me —    It could not be!

Thou beautiful, I haughty; and accustomed,One to sweep all away, one not to yield;Narrow the path, the shock inevitable —    It could not be!

Poems of Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer Rendered into English Verse (1891) by Mason Carnes

CONTENTS

TO MANUEL DE SANTA MARIA.

GUSTAVO ADOLFO BECQUER.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

XLIII.

XLIV.

XLV.

XLVI.

XLVII.

XLVIII.

XLIX.

L.

LI.

LII.

LIII.

LIV.

LV.

LVI.

LVII.

LVIII.

LIX.

LX.

LXI.

LXII.

LXIII.

LXIV.

LXV.

LXVI.

LXVII.

LXVIII.

LXIX.

LXX.

LXXI.

LXXII.

LXXIII.

TO MANUEL DE SANTA MARIA.

THE soft strings of a Spanish lute one day  You struck, and plaintive notes gushed forth like tears.Ravished I listened, and I longed to play  The music to another people’s ears.

You showed me all the cunning workmanship,  The stretching of the strings, the exquisiteAdjustment of the frets, the body’s dip;  I took the lute and tried to copy it.

Well, here it is, re-fashioned and re-strung.  Play on it; ah, I fear those sweet, sad airsSound cracked and harsh now, better left unsung.  Well, fling the lute aside and take Bécquer’s!

GUSTAVO ADOLFO BECQUER.

(Born 1836. Died 22nd December, 1870.)

FULL twenty years since thy soul ceased to fightWith tyrant matter and his thousand slaves,Opened Death’s gate, plunged in the lake which lavesThe soul, dew-dripping rose and winged its flight                          Into eternal light.

Poor weary soul, hast thou at length release?Doth the hag Sorrow curse with lusty Pain,And beat against the gate of Death in vain?Art thou immersed in joys that never cease,                          In never-ending peace?

Art thou a note in that great hymn which thouDidst hear? a line of beauty and the feel,The perfume of a rose? To love so leal,Dost know its full perfection, what and how                         ’Tis in the Ever-Now?

Oh, if there be a better to each best,If thou dost soar in endless cycles ofLarge motion, upward soar! If not, with love,With perfect love and peace and beauty blest,                          Sweet soul, for ever rest!

M. C.

22nd December, 1890.

I.

THROUGH all my being rolls a hymn deep-tonedAnd wild; presaging in my spirit’s nightA dawn. These pages are its cadencesThat through the sombre shadows wing their flight.

Would I could tame man’s poor rebellious tongue,Enriching it with meaning newly-found,And write with words of passion that would beAt once both sighs and smiles, colour and sound!

But ’tis in vain. There is no frame to holdAnd to express such music. Should I, dear,Feel e’en thy soft hand’s touch, I could not speak;

II.

FLYING arrow that darts astray,  Shot at misfortune unforeseen,  Without divining where its keenQuivering edge will find its way;

Leaf that from the sapless tree  Is ravished by the wild south wind,  With none to know or care to findThe furrow where its end will be;

Gigantic wave, — which the tempest hurls  And fiercely tosses upon the sea —   That rolling and raging wantonlyKnows not the shore towards which it whirls;

Light that shines though death be nigh  And burns in flickering circles small,  Not knowing which among them allWill flicker the last and trembling die;

Such am I. By chance I flow  Into this troubled world unsought;  I ebb away without a thoughtOf whence I come or where I go.

III.

STRANGE shock that thrills our beingAnd through our thoughts runs riot,Like a fierce tempest raging    That puts the waves to rout;

Murmur that through the spiritRises and goes increasing,Like a volcano rumbling,    Foretelling flame and death;

Images vague and mistyOf weird and monstrous beings:Vistas that vanish swiftly    As if across a veil;

Harmonious, blending colours,That on the air are limningThe atoms of the rainbow    Which stray in strands of light.

Thoughts without words, expression,And words without a meaning;Wild cadences that wander,    Rhythmless and measureless.

Longings to weep and suddenFlashes of joy; strange wishes,Memories dim and misty    Of things that never were;

Nervous energy vainlyStriving to find an outlet;A winged steed swift-speeding    Through space, unbridled, wild;

Madness that thrills and kindlesAnd raises high the spirit;Of genius creativeEbriety divine —     Such is Inspiration.

Gigantic voice that ordersThe brain’s anarchic chaosAnd hurls swift through the shadows    A thunderbolt of light;

Strong dazzling golden bridleThat curbs the flying courser — The mind, wild and ecstatic —     And checks its mad career;

Sun, through the dark clouds burstingAnd reaching proud the zenith;Strong thread of light in fagots    For ever binding thoughts;

Skilled hand, for ever tryingTo string rich words together(Like pearls upon a necklace)    Upon the strands of thought;

Harmonious rhythm, ensnaringWith cadence and with number,Caging within the measure    The fluttering bird-like notes;

Chisel that cuts the marble,Seeking the hidden statue,And to the form ideal    Fashions the massive block;

Strange air in which revolvingThoughts go in rhythmic order,Like atoms round some magnet    Whirling in circles swift;

Torrent whose water quenchesThe thirst of burning fever;Oasis, to the spiritRestoring all its strength; —     Such is reason!

With both in strife for ever,Of both for ever master,Thus, only thus, can genius    For ever yoke the two.

IV.

AH! do not say that, all its treasure spent,For lack of subjects mute the lyre has grown:Perchance no poets there will be, but still      For ever poetry will live.

While the waves enkindled by the kiss of light all palpitate,While the sun adorns the broken clouds with robes of fire and gold;While the air bears harmonies and perfumes in its ample lap,While there is a spring to glad the world, there will be poetry!

While Science strives in vain to find the origin of life,And in the sea or sky remains unsounded one abyss;While mankind advancing ever knows not whither trend his steps,While there is a mystery for man, there will be poetry!

While we feel the soul rejoicing with no laughter from the lips;While we feel the soul lamenting with no tears to cloud the eye;While the fiery heart continues battling with the sober head,While there are remembrances and hopes, there will be poetry!

While there are some eyes reflecting other eyes that look at them,While a sighing lip remains responsive to a lip that sighs,While two blended, mingled souls can feel each other in a kiss,While one beauteous woman still remains, there will be poetry!

V.

SPIRIT without a name,Essence ineffable,I live with life withoutA form that mind can shape.

I swim in space, tremblingBefore the sun’s hot blaze,‘Mid shadows palpitateAnd float away with mists.

I am the fringe of goldOf the far-distant star;I am the light sereneAnd cold of the high moon.

I am the burning cloudThat trembles in the west;I am the luminous wakeOf planets wandering.

I’m snow upon the heightsAnd fire upon the sands,Blue wave upon the seasAnd foam upon the strands.

A note in the sweet lute,A perfume in the rose,Will-o’-the-wisp in tombs,Ivy on ruins old.

I thunder in the stream,I crackle in the flame,I blind in lightning andI shriek and roar in storms.

I laugh upon the hills,I murmur on the plant,I sigh upon the waveAnd weep on the dry leaf.

Slowly I undulateWith atoms of the smokeThat rises gently toThe sky in spirals large.

Upon the golden threadsThe insects hang in airI swing and swing betweenThe trees at hottest noon —

I chase the wanton nymphsWho, in the current ofThe sylvan rivulet,Naked sport playfully;

And in the coral-wood,Rich carpeted with pearls,I follow in the seaThe Naiads swift of foot.

In hollow grottoes whereThe sun ne’er penetrates,Mingling with all the gnomes,I gaze upon their wealth.

I seek the tracks effacedOf centuries gone by,I know of kingdoms whichHave left not e’en a name.

I follow giddilyThe worlds as they revolveMy eye embraces allThe universe at once.

I know of regions whereNo murmur ever comes,And where unshapen starsHope for a breath of life.

I am the bridge that spansThe dread abyss; I amThe unknown ladder thatUnites the sky to earth.

I am the wondrous ringInvisible that bindsThe world of matter toThe larger world of mind.

I am that spirit free,Essence unknowable,Perfume unknown, of whichThe poet is the vase!

VI.

OE’R the field of battle in bloody dress,In the silence drear of the sombre night,Passes the breeze, in a sweet caressPerfumes and harmonies bringing.So, symbol of sorrow and tenderness,In her heart a chill, on her mind a blight,Passes Ophelia in dire distress,Plucking wild flowers and singing.

VII.

IN the dark corner of the drawing-room,Forgotten by its mistress long ago.Silent, cover’d with dust there in the gloomThe old harp lies.How many notes slept in those strings half-deadAnd waited for her fingers, white as snow,To wake them into throbbing life, that fledAway in sighs!Ah me! thought I, how oft sleeps genius thusDeep in the soul, hoping eternallyA voice will say, as He to Lazarus,“Arise and walk.” — Ah me!

VIII.

WHEN I see the blue horizon in the distance melt awayThrough a veil of dust that blazes with the burning heat of day.It seems possible to snatch me from all earthly, wretched thingsAnd to soar, dissolved in atoms, on those golden, misty wings.

When I see the stars at midnight in the dark depths of the skiesTrembling, shimmering with passion like a million ardent eyes,It seems possible to seek them, where they shine, in rapid flight,And to merge me in their being in a burning kiss of light.

Deep in doubt my faith is sunken, but these longings are a signThat I bear within me something that’s immortal and divine!

IX.

BALMY breezes softly sighing,Kiss the light waves as they curl;And the sun, albeit dyingKisses warm yon cloud of pearl;For a kiss the flame is tryingRound the burning log to whirl;And the willow never misses

X.

THE air-beams invisible wings unfoldAnd restlessly glowing soar over the earth,The heavens melt into rays of gold,While the earth is trembling with nervous mirth.

I close my eyes and I hear, spell-bound,A cadence of kisses, a beating of wingsIn billows of harmony floating around; — ’Tis Love that passes, while Nature sings!

XI.

“I AM the symbol of passion,Ardent and dark, with a soulThat is full of desire for enjoyment.Seekest thou me?”— “Not thee.”

“Pale, golden-locked, I can give theeExquisite joy without end;There’s a treasure of tenderness in me — Callest thou me?”— “Not thee.”

“I am a dream, an impossible something,A phantom of mist and light;Intangible, bodyless, love theeI cannot.”“O come thou, come!”

XII.

BECAUSE your eyes are green, child, like the deepYou fain would weep:The Naiad’s eyes were greenish-blue,Minerva’s too,Green are the houris’ eyesIn Paradise.

Green is the gay adornment of the woodland in the spring,Amid the seven colours of the rainbow mark its sheen,The emerald, the badge of hope to which the faithful cling,The mighty waves, the laurel of the poet — all are green.

Within your cheek a rosebud curlsItself, then blushes through the pearls.And yet you grieve,For you believeYour eyes disfigure it. Ah! no,It is not so.Restless and green your eyesLike almond leaves appear,That thrill at the air’s sighsIn loving fear.

Your mouth is a pomegranate burst,Inviting one to quench one’s thirst.And yet you grieve,For you believeYour eyes disfigure it. Ah! no,It is not so.Your eyes gleaming with ire,Mad waves appear to be,That on the rocks expire

XIII.

YOUR eye is blue; when you’re laughing,Its soft mellow light brings to meThe tremulous sheen of the morningThat glitters upon the sea.

Your eye is blue; when you’re weeping,The mischievous tears I espyLook like dew-drops that shimmer and sparkleOn a violet modestly shy.

Your eye is blue; and when from itDart forth in their mad careerYour thoughts, in the sky of the even

XIV.

I SAW you but an instant, yet your eyesImage themselves before mine own and riseAnd float, like that dark spot, mantled in blazeWhich floats and blinds, when on the sun you gaze.

Wherever I may look, I do but turnTo see your glowing eyes that flash and burn;But ’tis not you that I encounter, forIt is your look alone, your eyes — no more!

I see them in’ the corner of my roomWildly and strangely shining in the gloom;And even when I sleep I feel them thereWide-open, fix’d on me with steady stare.

I know that there are will-o’-the-wisps that flyBefore the traveller, leading him to die;Your eyes draw me along; I feel ’tis so,But yet I know not whither they would go.

XV.

FLOATING veil of misty light,Ribbon curl’d of foam snow-white,Cadence bold from harp of gold,Wave of light and kiss of breeze, —          Such are you!

You, an airy shade that fleesWhen I try its form to seize;Vanishing like flame overthrown,Like the fog and murmured moan         From a lake of blue.

Wave on shoreless sea, a traceOf a meteor through space,Long desire for something higher,Deep lamenting of the wind,         Such am I!

I, who in my pain will findToward your own my eyes inclined,I, who mad and tireless runAfter shadows of the sun,         Visions floating by!

XVI.

IF, when the bell-flow’rs on your balconyAll trembling lie,You think it is the sighing, murmuring windThat passes by,Know that, hidden among the green leaves there,For you I sigh.

If, when behind you echoing on your earVague murmurs fall,You think some far-off voice has called you, knowThat from the pallOf evening shadows that surround you, love,To you I call.

If in the dead of night your timorous heartBeats fast, while nearYour lips you feel a passionate, burning breath,Ah! have no fear.Know that, although invisible, I breatheBeside you, dear.

XVII.

TO-DAY there’s a smile on the earth and the skies,To-day to my soul comes the sun’s brightest ray,To-day I have seen her, I’ve basked in her eyes, — In God I believe to-day!

XVIII.

TIRED by the ball and out of breath,Her cheeks warm with the roses’ bloom,Leaning upon my arm she stoppedAt one end of the room — Beneath the palpitating gauze,Moved at the bidding of her breast,A flow’r trembled in movement sweetAnd measured — rhythmic rest!As in a nacre cradle there,Toward which the wanton zephyr trips,Perchance it slept, kiss’d by the breathOf those half-open lips.Thought I: Ah! who could let Time slipAway so coldly, carelessly?And oh, if flowers sleep, how sweet,How sweet its dream must be!

XIX.

WHEN you lean on your bosom your headO’ershadowed with gloom,Like a beauteous lily you seem,Plucked in its bloom.

On giving you purity, love,In the self-same mould,God fashioned the lily and youOf snow and gold!

XX.

IF sometimes you feel that an atmosphere burningEnkindles your lips as by chance,Know that the eyes that can utter their yearningCan also kiss with a glance!

XXI.

WHAT is poetry? (I baskIn the sheen of eyes of blue)What is poetry, you ask?Poetry?— ’tis you!

XXII.

NE’ER until now have I seen anywhereA flower that on a volcano grows,But next to your heart I see nestling a rose; — Tell me, how lives it there?

XXIII.

FOR a look, the world I would give,For a smile, all of Heaven’s bliss,For a kiss — ah! I do not knowWhat I’d give you, dear, for a kiss!

XXIV.

Two blood-red tongues of fireThat, circling the same log,Approach and as they kissForm but a single flame;

Two notes, plucked cunninglyTogether from the lute,That meet in space in sweetHarmonious embrace;

Two waves that come to dieTogether on the beachAnd, as they’re breaking, crownThemselves with silver crest;

Two sinuous curls of smokeThat rise from out the lakeAnd, as they meet there inThe sky, form one white cloud;

Two thoughts that equallyGush out; two kisses blent;Two echoes mingling e’er, — Like these are our two souls!

XXV.

WHEN sleep folds his gauzy wingsOver you at dead of night,And your eye-lashes fast-closedLook like bows of ebony;Then to listen to your heartThrobbing in a sweet unrestAnd to lean your sleeping headOn my breast, I’d give, my soul,All I own — light, air and thought!

When your eyes look far awayAt some thing invisible,And the reflex of a smileDarts, illumining your lips;Then to read upon your browSilent thoughts, that pass like cloudsO’er a glass, I’d give, my soul,All I wish — fame, genius, gold!

When words die upon your lips,And your breath comes quick and warm,And your cheeks are all aglowAnd your black eyes look in mine;Then to see in them a spark,Flashing with a humid fire,As it gushes from the heart,I would give, soul of my soul,All that is and all to come!

XXVI.

AWAKE, I fear to look;Asleep, I dare to see;For that, soul of my soul,I watch the while you sleep.

Awake, you laugh; and laughing your unquiet lips appearLike sinuous, crimson meteors upon a sky of snow.Asleep, a sweet smile gently curls the corners of your mouth,Soft as the track effulgent of the swiftly dying sun; —           Sleep! Sleep!

Awake, you look; and looking your moist eyes resplendent shineLike a wave, whose crest is smitten by a jav’lin of the sun.Asleep, across your eye-lids you send forth a tranquil sheen,Like a lamp transparent, shedding even rays of tempered light —           Sleep! Sleep!

Awake, you speak; and speaking, all your vibrant words appearLike a show’r of pearls in torrents pour’d into a golden cup.

Asleep, in ev’ry murmur of your soft and measured breathI listen to a poem, which my soul enamour’d hears; —              Sleep! Sleep!

On my heart I’ve placed my handLest its beating should be heard,Lest discordant it should soundOn the solemn chord of night.

I have closed the jalousiesLest that roysterer, the dawn,With his glaring robe of lightShould awake you from your dreams;           Sleep! Sleep!

XXVII.

WHEN within the shadows drearMurmuring a voice complains,Breaks the silence with sad strains,If within my heart I hearSweetly sounding every note;Tell me, is’t the wind that diesSo lamenting, or your sighsSpeaking love-words as they float?

When at morn the sunbeams stealThrough my window, and I traceOn their shifting sheen your face,If the touch I think I feelOf two other lips; am I,Tell me, merely mad, distraught,Or with melting kisses fraughtDoes your heart send out a sigh?

If within my soul be foundNaught but you from dazzling light,Naught but you from gloomy night,Naught but you from all aroundDeep-reflected ev’rywhere;Tell me, do I feel and thinkIn a dream, or do I drinkEv’ry sigh you breathe like air?

XXVIII.

UPON her lap she held an open book;Her soft black tresses kiss’d my cheek; no lookCast we upon the words, nor looked we roundBut both maintain’d a silence most profound.E’en then I could not tell how long ’twas kept;I only know that naught was heard exceptThe quicken’d breath, which from our warm lips crept;I only know we two together turned,Our eyes met, in a kiss our blent lips burned.Dante’s “Inferno” was the book. My headBent o’er it. “Do you understand,” I said,“How in one line may be a poem?” AndShe answered, blushing; “Yes, I understand.”

XXIX.

A TEAR rose to her eyes, and to my lipsThe word of pardon she desired;Pride spoke, her weeping ceased, the wordUpon my lips expired.I go by one road, by another she;But thinking on our mutual lotI ask, why was I silent then?And she, why wept I not?

XXX.

OUR love was a tragic farceIn which the grave and the gayWere so blent that a tear and a smileO’er the face together would stray.

But the worst of the play was this,That when the curtain fell,We both had the tears, ’tis true,But she kept the smiles as well!

XXXI.

SHE passed triumphant in her beauty, andI let her pass;To even look at her I turned not round,Yet something murmured in my ear, “’Tis she.”

Who joined the ev’ning to the morning? ThatI know not, butI know that one short summer night the dawnWas wedded to the twilight, and— “it was.”

XXXII.

’Tis nothing — merely a question of words-And yet neither you nor IWill ever agree, after what has passed,On whom the blame should lie.

A dictionary of love! — What a shameThere is none! We might look insideAnd see when pride is dignity,And when it is simply pride!

XXXIII.

SHE passes mute; her movements light and freeAre silent harmony;Her steps recall, heard in the twilight dim,The rhythmic cadence of a winged hymn.

She looks with eyes half-open, with those eyesAs bright as Paradise;And all the planets in celestial flight,Seeking those limpid deeps, glow with new light.

She laughs, — the echoes of a woodland streamThe merry ripples seem;She weeps, and ev’ry tear’s a soft caress,A poem of unbounded tenderness.

Perfume and light exhaling, lustrous, warmIn colour, and in formVoluptuous, expression too has she — That everlasting fount of poesy.

Stupid? Bah! If the secret never slipsFrom out her pretty lips,What any other says is dull as leadTo what she leaves so charmingly unsaid!

XXXIV.

THE occasional tenderness you displaySurprises me more than your cold neglect,For what little good may be in my clayYou could never suspect!

XXXV.

IF, in a book, of all our wrongsThe story should be traced,And in our souls, as on its leaves,They should be all effaced,I love you so, your love has leftSuch traces in my breast,That were you to blot out one wrong,I’d blot out all the rest!

XXXVI.

BEFORE you I shall die; for in my heartThe dagger may be foundWith which your small hand open’d ruthlesslyThe broad and mortal wound.

Before you I shall die; my spirit, firmAnd constant in its love,Patiently sitting at the gate of DeathWill wait for you above.

The days fly with the hours and with the daysThe years too swiftly pass,And you will call at length at that dread gate, — Who fails to call, alas?

Then, as the quiet earth guards silentlyYour sin and your remains,When in the waves of death you plunge your soulTo wash away its stains;

There, where life’s murmur trembling goes to die,Like flames of fading fire,Like waves that gently ripple to the shoreAnd silently expire;There, where the sepulchre shuts out the nightAnd shows eternal day, — There we must speak; then all we’ve kept unsaidWe two will have to say.

XXXVII.

A SIGH is but air, and melts into air,A tear is but water and to the sea flows.Tell me, woman, when love is forgot,                Do you know where it goes?

XXXVIII.

WHY tell me that? I know it; she is vain,Haughty, capricious, fickle as the wind;Water would gush out from a sterile rockSooner than any feeling from her soul.

I know that in her heart — a serpent’s nest — There’s not a fibre that would thrill to love,That she is but a soulless statue — yet              She is so beautiful!

XXXIX.

You were the storm and I the lofty tow’rThat dared defy your pow’r;You had to dash yourself against my wallOr hurl me to my fall, — It could not be!

You were the ocean, I the firm, grim rockThat e’er withstood your shock;You had to root me up or roll and roarAnd break upon the shore, — It could not be!

You, beautiful, were wont to win the field,I, proud, to never yield;Narrow the path, the shock none could endureInevitably sure, — It could not be!

XL.

WHEN they related it I felt as ifAn icy blade of steel had pierced me through;I leaned against the wall, and, for a timeBenumbed, lost consciousness of where I was.

Night fell upon my spirit, and my soulIn anger and in pity was submerged, — And then I understood how one could weep,And then I understood how one could kill!

The heavy cloud of sorrow rolled away;With pain I stammered out a few short words.Who told the news? A faithful friend. It wasAn honest, worthy deed, — I gave him thanks.

XLI.

I PUT the light aside, and sat me downUpon the edge of the disorder’d bed;At the blank wall I gazed, immovable,                Mute, sombre, like the dead.

And how long was I there? I do not know;When grief’s dull drunkenness was leaving me,The light was out and on my balconies                The sun laughed gleefully.

Nor do I know in those dread hours of whatI thought or what mad passions through me roll’d;But I remember that I wept and curst,And that, ere morning came, I had grown old.

XLII.

As in an open bookI read in the depths of your eyes;What good to feign with the lipA smile which the eye denies?Weep! that you’ve loved me awhileDo not blush to confess with a tear.Weep! no one’s looking, — you seeI’m a man, yet I’m weeping, dear!

XLIII.

UPON the keystone of a tottering arch, — Tinged red by time, — the work of chisels oldAnd rude, a Gothic blazon showed itself,                Crested and bold.

The ivy, that was clinging thick behindThe granite plumes which from the helmet start,Obscured the scutcheon, whereon was a hand                Holding a heart.

To look at this in the deserted square                Together stood we two:She said, “This is the faithful emblem of                My love — constant and true.”Ay, what she told me then is truth itself —                 Truth that she’ll ever go,Her heart upon her hand or anywhere                Save in her breast, — there, no!

XLIV.

SHE, hiding in the shadows, wounded me,Sealing her treason with a kiss. Her partShe knew too well; around my neck her armsShe threw, then stabbed me through the heart.How can she boldly laugh and gaily singAnd still pursue her path, with roses rife?Because no blood flows from the wound, becauseDeath sometimes wears the robes of Life!

XLV.

OVER the deep abysses of the earthI’ve looked, and of the sky,And I have seen them to the end in thoughtOr with the eye.But oh, I came across a heart’s abyssAnd leaned far over; backMy soul and eyes fell in dismay — it wasSo deep, so black!

XLVI.

As one draws from a wound the sword,From out my heart my love I drew,Although I felt, on doing it,That with it life was wrested too.

Her image, shrined within my soul,From the high altar down I wrenched,The light of faith that on it burnedBefore the empty shrine was quenched —

Yet still to struggle with my willHer face with everything comes blended, — How can I with that dream e’er sleep — That dream in which all dreaming ended

XLVII.

SOMETIMES I meet her passing by;                A smile I seeUpon her lips. How can she laugh?                I ask.

Another smile comes to my lips —                 Dull sorrow’s mask — And then I think; — perchance she laughs                Like me!

XLVIII.

ACCORDING to his fancy from a logThe savage fashions for himself a god,And then bows down before his own rude workAnd humbly worships, — so did you and I.Reality we gave to what was butA phantom — mere illusion of the mind — And now we sacrifice our love uponThe altar of the idol we have made.

XLIX.

To know what you have said of me I’d giveThe best years of what little life I own,And all in me that will for ever liveTo know what you have thought of me alone.

L.

O WAVES gigantic that roaring breakAnd hurl yourselves on a desert strand,Wrapt in a sheet of the foam you make   Drag me below with you, bear me on high.

O hurricane, driving with whips of windThe faded leaves from the forest grand,Dragged along by the whirlwind blind   Goad me to go with you, prone as I lie.

O clouds of the tempest, by light’ning kiss’d,Your edges shot with the fire of its love,Whirled along in the sombre mist   Bear me away with you, bear me above.

O bear me away with you, bear me awayWhere frenzied with vertigo mad I may slayMy reason and memory, for I fear   To be left all alone with my sorrow here.

LI.

THOSE sombre-hued swallows again will strayTo thy balcony, love, there to build them a nest;As they fly to and fro in a vague unrestThey will call to thee, call to thee at their play.

But those who lingered our names to learn,To drink in the sweetness of all they saw — My bliss and thy beauty without a flaw — They will never return, they will never return.

The thick honeysuckles that clustering bindThy garden-walls will return to their bride,And more lovely than ever at eventideWill open their hearts to the wandering wind.

But those that are laden with dew-drops that yearnFor the earth, and tremble and fall in our sight,Like tears of the day for the death of the night,They will never return, they will never return.

Love’s passionate words again will makeIn thy listening ears their luscious sound,And thy heart from the depths of its slumber profoundPerchance will awake, perchance will awake.

But the love of the worshipper for the Divine,As he kneels toward the altar and gazes above,Such love as I’ve given, believe me, my love,Will never be thine again, never be thine.

LII.

WHEN from out our happy pastThe flying hours we call,A tear-drop glitters upon your eyeAnd trembles, just ready to fall.

And at length it falls at the thought that we bothShall return to lament alway,As the day that is for the day that wasAnd the day that’s to come for to-day.

LIII.

TO-DAY like yesterday and like to-dayTo-morrow — e’er the same!Horizon limitless, and sky of gray,Life, motion without aim.

The heart with slow and rhythmic movement creepsA mere machine, while proneAnd crowned with poppies in the corner sleepsThe mind, dead as a stone!

The soul that paints the paradise of yore,But seeks it with despair;Toil without object, waves that roll and roar,Not knowing why or where!

A voice like the cuckoo that ceaseless callsIn drowsy minor key;A water-drop monotonous that fallsAnd falls incessantly!

So drearily they creep and creep along,The heavy-footed days,To-day like yesterday — the self-same song,A joyless, painless phrase.

Ah, sometimes sighing I recall the painMy sorrows used to give — Bitter is grief, yet happiness is vain;To suffer is to live.

LIV.

IT is not strange this framework hereOf skin and bones at last has grownSo loath to bear my madcap brain;’Tis true I am not old and sere,But from the cup of life I ownI drink so eagerly the pain,A century of life, I’d say,I’ve fused and poured into each day.

And so to-day were I to die.That I have lived I’d not deny;Without the house seems new and gay,Within live ruin and decay.

Decay sits there, alas! His wizened faceMy sorrow ever mirrors to me now:For there’s a grief that passing stamps its traceDeep in the heart, if not upon the brow.

LV.

You wish there were no dregs in this sweet wine,                No bitterness and gall?Well, sip it, merely touch it to your lips,                Then leave it, — that is all.

One sweet remembrance of this love you wish                To keep? To-day engrossOurselves with love; to-morrow let us say,                Adios!

LVI.

THE object of your sighsI surmise;Your languishing ennuiI can see,For you cover its sweet causeWith a gauze!Child, you laugh? Well, by-and-byYou’ll know why!You suspect? Perchance ’tis so,But I know!

Yes, I know the joy that gleamsThrough your dreams,Lighting up the sights you seeWith its glee;And your forehead is a bookTo my look.Child, you laugh? Well, by-and-byYou’ll know why!You suspect? Perchance ’tis so,But I know!

Smiles and tears play hide-and-seekOn your cheek.I know why, — ah! do not start!Your sweet heartIs a very easy scrollTo unroll!Child, you laugh? Well, by-and-byYou’ll know why!You know naught, and all you feelYou reveal;I have felt— ’twas long ago — And I know!

LVII.

MY life is but a waste; each flow’rI touch withers within an hour;For on my path some one must creep   Sowing evils that I reap.

LVIII.

WHEN the sleepless fever comesAnd the hours creep slowly by,On the border of my bed   Who will sit beside me?

When my thin and trembling handI stretch out — about to die — Longing for a friendly hand,   Who will grasp it tightly?

When my eyes are glazed by death — Eyes that ne’er again will see — Should my eyelids open stay,   Who will close them kindly?

When they sound the funeral bell(If a knell be tolled for me),Hearing it, a gentle prayer  Who will murmur softly?

When my body lies at restIn the bosom of the earth,O’er the soon-forgotten grave   Who will come to mourn me?

When the sun returns to shineOn the morrow, in their mirthThat I passed once through this world   Who will e’er remember?

LIX.

TREMBLING comes the dawn at first, and scarcely dares to pierce the night,Then it sparkles, grows, expanding in a burning burst of light.Light is joy, the fearful shadows are the griefs that on me weigh.Ah! upon my spirit’s darkness when will come the dawn of day?

LX.

FROM a dark corner of the mindPast memoriesFly to beset me, like a swarmOf angry bees.

Attacked, surrounded, ’tis in vainI try to fling.Them off; each thrusts into my soulIts poisoned sting.

LXI.

THE miser guards his hoard; so guarded IMy grief; I wished to proveThat there existed something infiniteTo her who swore to me eternal love.

To-day I call on it in vain; I hearTime, who destroyed it, say,You are not able e’en to suffer painEternally, poor miserable clay!

LXII.

NIGHT came, but no shelter I found,I’d but tears to quench my thirst.My hot eyes were ready to burst,And, fainting, I fell to the ground.

In a desert I seemed to be;Though I heard the hoarse multitude’s drone,I was orphan and poor and alone, — The earth was a desert to me!

LXIII.

WHENCE come I? Seek the darkest, roughest way.Upon the stones the tracks of bleeding feetAnd on the thorns a heart transfix’d will meetYour eyes; — they’ll tell you where my cradle lay.

Where go I? Cross a waste of endless gloom — Vale of eternal fogs and snows. Where loneAnd melancholy stands a nameless stone,Where dwells oblivion, there will be my tomb.

LXIV.

How beautiful it is to see the dayArising, crowned with fire, the waves that play,                Each one a gleaming sprite, — The air enkindled by the kiss of light!

Late in an autumn day, when rain-drops cloyThe flowers, how sweet and beautiful the joy                To have your being fedUpon their perfume till it’s surfeited!

Upon a winter’s eve, when silentlyThe snow-flakes fall, how beautiful to see                The reddish tongues of greatAnd massive flames timidly palpitate!

When softly drowsiness begins to creepUpon you, oh, how sweet it is to sleep!                How good to drink and stuff

Ourselves! A pity ’tis, ’tis not enough!

LXV.

I KNOW not what I dreamedLast night; it must have painedMe much, that baleful, melancholy dream,For when I woke the anguish still remained.

On sitting up I foundThe pillow wet with tears,And for the first time felt, on seeing it,My soul swell with a joy that cuts and sears.

Sorrow’s pale offspring suchA poignant dream must be,But in my grief I have one joy — to knowThat tears at least have not deserted me!

LXVI.

AT the flash of a light we are born; we are deadEre its splendour refulgent is sped, — Life is so short!For glory and love that we ardently courtAre but shades of a dream that floats by; — To awake is to die!

LXVII.

How often in the dead of night close byThose old moss-covered wallsThat shelter her, I have heard the tinkling bellThat to the Matins calls!

How often has the silver moon outlinedMy sombre shadow, nearThat of the cypress-tree, which o’er the wallsLeans from the churchyard drear!

When night has wrapped her robe around the churchHow often have I seenUpon the windows of its chiselled vaultThe dim lamp’s trembling sheen!

Although through all the angles of the tow’rThe wind would moan, I’d hear,Swelling above the voices of the choir,Her voice vibrant and clear.

If on a winter’s night a coward daredThrough the deserted placeTo pass, on seeing me he’d cross himselfAnd hurry on apace.

No doubt next day some crone would mutter toHerself, “It must have beenThe ghost accurst of some old sacristanWho died, unshriven, in sin.”

The corners of the porch before the churchI knew e’en in the dark;Perhaps the nettles that grew there on whichI stamped still keep the mark.

The frightened owls that with their flaming eyesBlinked at me, in the end,When time had calmed their fears, began to lookUpon me as a friend.

Beside me without fear the reptiles usedTo crawl and creep; at lastI even saw the very granite SaintsSalute me as I passed.

LXVIII.

I DID not sleep, but in that region dimI wandered, where all objects strangely limnThemselves — bridges mysterious that span                The sleep and wake of man.

Wild thoughts, that in a silent circle spedAnd whirled and danced delirious through my head,Little by little slowed their steps, to rhyme                Them to a gentler time.

My eyelids veiled the reflex of the lightThat through the eye enters the soul, but brightAnd strong that other light shot with its beams                The inner world of dreams.

’Twas then that softly sounded in my earA murmur vague, confused, like that we hearIn church, when to the roof the echo bears                The “Amen” to the prayers.

I smelt the incense and humidity,The candles just gone out; it seemed to meThat from afar a sad, thin voice there came                That called me by my name.

*******

Night came, and like a stone I sank to rest,Clasped in Oblivion’s arms, upon her breast;I slept and slept, and on awaking said,                “Some one I loved is dead!”

LXIX.

FIRST VOICE.

LET the waves with music thrill,Sweetness in a rose recline,Give her silver veil to Night