The Flowers of Evil Part 8

Illusionary Love

When I behold thee wander by, my languorous love, To songs of viols which throughout the dome resound, Harmonious and stately as thy footsteps move, Bestowing forth the languor of thy glance profound.

When I regard thee, glowing in the gaslight rays, Thy pallid brow embellished by a charm obscure, Here where the evening torches light the twilight haze, Thine eyes attracting me like those of a portraiture,

I say--How beautiful she is! how strangely rich!

A mighty memory, royal and commanding tower, A garland: and her heart, bruised like a ruddy peach, Is ripe--like her body for Love's sapient power.

Art thou, that spicy Autumn-fruit with taste supreme?

Art thou a funeral vase inviting tears of grief?

Aroma--causing one of Eastern wastes to dream; A downy cushion, bunch of flowers or golden sheaf?

I know that there are eyes, most melancholy ones, Wherein no precious secret deeply hidden lies, Resplendent shrines, devoid of relics, sacred stones, More empty, more profound than ye yourselves, O skies?

Yea, does thy semblance, not alone for me suffice, To kindle senses which the cruel truth abhor?

All one to me! thy folly or thy heart of ice, Decoy or mask, all hail! thy beauty I adore!

Mists and Rains

O last of Autumn and Winter--steeped in haze, O sleepy seasons! you I love and praise, Because around my heart and brain you twine A misty winding-sheet and a nebulous shrine.

On that great plain, where frigid blasts abound, Where through the nights, so long, the vane whirls round, My soul, more free than in the springtime soft, Will stretch her raven wings and soar aloft,

Unto an heart with gloomy things replete, On which remain the frosts of former Times, O pallid seasons, mistress of our climes

As your pale shadows--nothing is so sweet, Unless it be, on a moonless night a-twain, On some chance couch to soothe to sleep our Pain.

The Wine of Lovers

To-day the Distance is superb, Without bridle, spur or curb, Let us mount on the back of wine For Regions fairy and divine!

Let's, like two angels tortured by Some dark, delirious phantasy, Pursue the distant mirage drawn O'er the blue crystal of the dawn!

And gently balanced on the wing Of some obliging whirlwind, we --In equal rapture revelling--

My sister, side by side will flee, Without repose, nor truce, where gleams The golden Paradise of my dreams!

Condemned Women

Like thoughtful cattle on the yellow sands reclined, They turn their eyes towards the horizon of the sea, Their feet towards each other stretched, their hands entwined, They tell of gentle yearning, frigid misery.

A few, with heart-confiding faith of old, imbued Amid the darkling grove, where silver streamlets flow, Unfold to each their loves of tender infanthood, And carve the verdant stems of the vine-kissed portico.

And others like unto nuns with footsteps slow and grave, Ascend the hallowed rocks of ancient mystic lore, Where long ago--St. Anthony, like a surging wave, The naked purpled b.r.e.a.s.t.s of his temptation saw.

And still some more, that 'neath the shimmering ma.s.ses stroll, Among the silent chasm of some pagan caves, To soothe their burning fevers unto thee they call O Bacchus! who all ancient wounds and sorrow laves.

And others again, whose necks in scapulars delight, Who hide a whip beneath their garments secretly, Commingling, in the sombre wood and lonesome night, The foam of torments and of tears with ecstasy.

O virgins, demons, monsters, and O martyred brood!

Great souls that mock Reality with remorseless sneers, O saints and satyrs, searchers for infinitude!

At times so full of shouts, at times so full of tears!

You, to whom within your h.e.l.l my spirit flies, Poor sisters--yea, I love you as I pity you, For your unsatiated thirsts and anguished sighs, And for the vials of love within your hearts so true.

The Death of the Lovers

We will have beds which exhale odours soft, We will have divans profound as the tomb, And delicate plants on the ledges aloft, Which under the bluest of skies for us bloom.

Exhausting our hearts to their last desires, They both shall be like unto two glowing coals, Reflecting the twofold light of their fires Across the twin mirrors of our two souls.

One evening of mystical azure skies, We'll exchange but one single lightning flash, Just like a long sob--replete with good byes.

And later an angel shall joyously pa.s.s Through the half-open doors, to replenish and wash The torches expired, and the tarnished gla.s.s.

The Death of the Poor

It is Death that consoles--yea, and causes our lives; 'Tis the goal of this Life--and of Hope the sole ray, Which like a strong potion enlivens and gives Us the strength to plod on to the end of the day.

And all through the tempest, the frost and the snows, 'Tis the shimmering light on our black sky-line; 'Tis the famous inn which the guide-book shows, Whereat one can eat, and sleep, and recline;

'Tis an angel that holds in his magic hands The sleep, which ecstatic dream commands, Who remakes up the beds of the naked and poor;

'Tis the fame of the G.o.ds, 'tis the granary blest, 'Tis the purse of the poor, and his birth-place of rest, To the unknown Heavens, 'tis the wide-open door.