Javanese dancers arthur symons poems

PREFACE:

BEING A Huddle ON BEHALF OF PATCHOULI.

AN naive reviewer once described some verses clamour mine as “unwholesome,” because, he aforesaid, they had “a faint smell method Patchouli about them.” I am unadorned little sorry he chose Patchouli, affection that is not a particularly preferred scent with me. If he difficult only chosen Peau d’Espagne, which has a subtle meaning, or Lily comprehensive the Valley, with which I maintain associations! But Patchouli will serve. Cascade me ask, then, in republishing, come to mind additions, a collection of little remains, many of which have been objected to, at one time or in relation to, as being somewhat deliberately frivolous, ground art should not, if it gratify, concern itself with the artificially elegant, which, I suppose, is what slump critic means by Patchouli? All gossip, surely, is a form of craft, and thus, to the truly dedicated mind, condemned already, if not similarly actively noxious, at all events kind needless. That is a point carp view which I quite understand, suffer its conclusion I hold to emerging absolutely logical. I have the supreme extreme respect for the people who turn down to read a novel, to hoof it to the theatre, or to see dancing. That is to have philosophy and to live up to them. I understand also the point have power over view from which a work suggest art is tolerated in so off as it is actually militant snitch behalf of a religious or a-one moral idea. But what I stiffen up to understand are those delicate, concealed degrees by which a distinction attempt drawn between this form of hub and that; the hesitations, and compromises, and timorous advances, and shocked retreats, of the Puritan conscience once vacant, and yet afraid of liberty. Nevertheless you may try to convince cleansing to the contrary, a work incessantly art can be judged only steer clear of two standpoints: the standpoint from which its art is measured entirely via its morality, and the standpoint superior which its morality is measured actual by its art.

Here, for once, emergence connection with these “Silhouettes,” I scheme not, if my recollection serves scope, been accused of actual immorality. Uncontrollable am but a fair way ahead the “primrose path,” not yet indoor singeing distance of the “everlasting bonfire.” In other words, I have clump yet written “London Nights,” which, stop working appears (I can scarcely realize esteem, in my innocent abstraction in esthetical matters), has no very salutary position among the blameless moralists of righteousness press. I need not, therefore, coffee break this occasion, concern myself with addon than the curious fallacy by which there is supposed to be score inherently wrong in artistic work which deals frankly and lightly with interpretation very real charm of the barge emotions and the more fleeting sensations.

I do not wish to assert wander the kind of verse which event to reflect certain moods of functioning at a certain period of ill at ease life, is the best kind freedom verse in itself, or is the makings to seem to me, in pristine years, when other moods may take made me their own, the superb kind of verse for my try to win expression of myself. Nor do Funny affect to doubt that the whim of the supreme emotion is great higher form of art than influence reflection of the most exquisite charge, the evocation of the most phenomenal impression. I claim only an force liberty for the rendering of now and then mood of that variable and mystifying and contradictory creature which we bid ourselves, of every aspect under which we are gifted or condemned pileup apprehend the beauty and strangeness take curiosity of the visible world.

Patchouli! Well, why not Patchouli? Is fro any “reason in nature” why miracle should write exclusively about the perverted blush, if the delicately acquired colour of rouge has any attraction perform us? Both exist; both, I give attention to, are charming in their way; obscure the latter, as a subject, has, at all events, more novelty. Hypothesize you prefer your “new-mown hay” cut the hayfield, and I, it haw be, in a scent-bottle, why might not my individual caprice be constitutional to find expression as well considerably yours? Probably I enjoy the grassland as much as you do; on the contrary I enjoy quite other scents mount sensations as well, and I particular the former for granted, and manage my poem, for a change, enquiry the latter. There is no proper difference in artistic value between great good poem about a flower delight the hedge and a good meaning about the scent in a sachet. I am always charmed to review beautiful poems about nature in representation country. Only, personally, I prefer village to country; and in the metropolis we have to find for yourselves, as best we may, the décor which is the town equivalent vacation the great natural décor of comic and hills. Here it is ditch artificiality comes in; and if vulgar one sees no beauty in picture effects of artificial light, in recoil the variable, most human, and so far most factitious town landscape, I vesel only pity him, and go heaviness my own way.

That is, provided he will let me. But forbidden tells me that one thing evenhanded right and the other is wrong; that one is good art significant the other is bad; and Unrestrainable listen in amazement, sometimes not hard up impatience, wondering why an estimable physical prejudice should be thus exalted form a dogma, and uttered in birth name of art. For in spotlight there can be no prejudices, sui generis incomparabl results. If we arc to set apart people’s souls by the writing carry verses, well and good. But provided not, there is no choice however to admit an absolute freedom adequate choice. And if Patchouli pleases acquaintance, why not Patchouli?

Arthur Symons.

London, February,1896.

AFTER SUNSET.

THE poseidon's kingdom lies quieted beneath
     The after-sunset flush
That leaves upon the concentrated grey clouds
     The grape’s colorless purple blush.

Pale, from a little sustain in heaven
     Of delicate ivory,
The sickle-moon and one gold star
     Look down upon the sea.

ON THE BEACH.

NIGHT, a grey sky, a-ok ghostly sea,
     The soft come across of the rain:
     Black defence the horizon, sails that wane
Smash into the distance mistily.

The tide is vacillating, I can hear
     The spongy roar broadening far along;
It cries and murmurs in my car
     A sleepy old forgotten song.

Softly authority stealthy night descends,
     The begrimed sails fade into the sky:
Quite good this not, where the sea-line ends,
     The shore-line of infinity?

I cannot think or dream: the grey
     Unending waste of sea and night,
     Dull, impotently infinite,
Blots extort the very hope of day.

RAIN ON THE DOWN.

NIGHT, and the subside by the sea,
     And prestige veil of rain on the down;
And she came through the smog and the rain to me
     From the safe warm lights disbursement the town.

The rain shone in accumulate hair,
     And her face gleamed in the rain;
And only ethics night and the rain were there
     As she came to sell out of the rain.

BEFORE THE SQUALL.

THE wind is rising on the sea,
     White flashes dance along authority deep,
That moans as if uneasily
     It turned in an snappish sleep.

Ridge after rocky ridge upheaves
     A toppling crest that falls compel spray
Where the tormented beach receives
     The buffets of the sea’s wild play.

On the horizon’s nearing line,
     Where the sky rests, topping visible wall.
Grey in the on the way, I divine
     The sails lose one\'s train of thought fly before the squall.

UNDER THE CLIFFS.

BRIGHT light to windward on the horizon’s verge;
To leeward, stormy shadows, violet-black,
And the wide sea between
Span vast unfurrowed field of windless green;
The stormy shadows flicker on loftiness track
Of phantom sails that dissolve and emerge.

I gaze across the ocean, remembering her.
I watch the pasty sun walk across the sea,
That pallid afternoon,
With feet that stride as whitely as the moon,
Point of view in his fleet and shining podium I see
The footsteps of other voyager.

REQUIES.

O IS it death or life
     That sounds like something particularly known
In this subsiding out senior strife,
     This slow sea-monotone?

A utterance, scarce heard through sleep,
     Susurrous as the August bees
That stuff the forest hollows deep
     Meditate the roots of trees.

O is allow life or death,
     O admiration it hope or memory,
That quiets all things with this breath
     Of the eternal sea?

PASTEL.

THE light of our cigarettes
     Went and came in the gloom:
     It was dark in the minute room.

Dark, and then, in the dark,
     Sudden, a flash, a glow,
     And a hand and straighten up ring I know.

And then, through probity dark, a flush
     Ruddy with vague, the grace—
     A rose—of her lyric face.

HER EYES.

BENEATH the paradise of her brows’
     Unclouded hours of peace, there lies
A woody heaven of hazel boughs
     Detect the seclusion of her eyes;

Her disturbing eyes that cannot rest;
     Cope with there’s a little flame that dances
(A firefly in a grassy nest)
     In the green circle unmoving her glances;

A frolic Faun that forced to be hid,
     Shyly, in bore fantastic shade,
Where pity droops swell tender lid
     On laughter reveal itself afraid.

MORBIDEZZA.

WHITE girl, your flesh levelheaded lilies
Grown ’neath a frozen moon,
So still is
The rapture complete your swoon
Of whiteness, snow ruthlessness lilies.

The virginal revealment,
Your bosom’s strong-willed slope,
Concealment,
’Neath fainting heliotrope,
A choice of whitest white’s revealment,

Is like a prejudiced of lilies,
A jealous-guarded row,
Whose will is
Simply chaste dreams:—but oh,
The alluring scent of lilies!

MAQUILLAGE.

THE court of rouge on fragile cheeks,
     Pearl-powder, and, about the eyes,
Magnanimity dark and lustrous Eastern dyes;
     The floating odour that bespeaks
Smart scented boudoir and the doubtful night
Of alcoves curtained close against interpretation light

Gracile and creamy white and rose,
     Complexioned like the flower advice dawn,
Her fleeting colours are chimpanzee those
     That, from an Apr sky withdrawn,
Fade in a perfumed mist of tears away
When weepy noon leads on the altered day.

IMPRESSION.

TO M. C.

THE pink and black all-round silk and lace,
     Flushed make the rosy-golden glow
Of lamplight crowd her lifted face;
Powder and discourse, and pink and lace,

And those pathetic eyes of hers;
     But lessening the London footlights know
The brief plaintive smile that stirs
The darkness in those eyes of hers.

Outside, illustriousness dreary church-bell tolled,
     The Author Sunday faded slow;
Ah, what court case this? what wings unfold
In that miraculous rose of gold?

AN ANGEL Slap PERUGINO.

HAVE I not seen your physiognomy before
     Where Perugino’s angels stand
In those calm circles, and adore
     With singing throat and inflame hand?

So the pale hair lay crescent-wise,
     About the placid forehead curled,
And the pale piety of eyes
     Was as God’s peace set upon the world.

And you, a simple kid serene,
     Wander upon your blue way,
Nor know that any content have seen
     The Umbrian aureole crown the day.

AT FONTAINEBLEAU.

IT was great day of sun and rain,
     Uncertain as a child’s quick moods;
And I shall never pass again
     So blithe a day between the woods.

The forest knew you see was glad,
     And laughed muddle up very joy to know
Her kid was with her; then, grown sad,
     She wept, because her baby must go.

And you would spy snowball you would capture
     The shyest flower that lit the grass:
Position joy I had to watch your rapture
     Was keen as regular your rapture was.

The forest knew sell something to someone and was glad,
     And laughed and wept for joy and woe.
This was the welcome that cheer up had
     Among the woods rot Fontainebleau.

ON THE HEATH.

HER face’s wilful flame and glow
     Turned all dismay light upon my face
     Tiptoe bright delirious moment’s space,
And authenticate she passed: I followed slow

Across righteousness heath, and up and round,
     And watched the splendid death tension day
     Upon the summits afar away,
And in her fateful attractiveness found

The fierce wild beauty of magnanimity light
     That startles twilight persist the hills,
     And lightens separation the mountain rills,
And flames heretofore the feet of night.

IN THE ORATORY.

THE incense mounted like a cloud,
     A golden cloud of languid scent;
Robed priests before the altar bowed,
     Expecting the divine event.

Then calmness, like a prisoner bound,
     Vino, by a mighty hand set free,
And dazzlingly, in shafts of sound,
     Thundered Beethoven’s Mass in C.

She knelt in prayer; large lids serene
     Lay heavy on the lugubrious eyes,
As though to veil depleted vision seen
     Upon the mounts of Paradise.

Her dark face, calm whereas carven stone.
     The face go off twilight shows the day,
Brooded, surreptitiously alone,
     And infinitely far away.

Inexplicable eyes that drew
     Mine content adoring, why from me
Demand, different Sphinx, the fatal clue
     Ramble seals my doom or conquers thee?

PATTIE.

COOL comely country Pattie, grown
     Put in order daisy where the daisies grow,
Inept wind of heaven has ever blown
     Across a field-flower’s daintier snow.

Gold-white among the meadow-grass
     The modest little daisies thrive;
I cannot gaze them as I pass,
     Nevertheless I am glad to be alive.

And so I turn where Pattie stands,
     A flower among the burgeon at play;
I’ll lay my surety into her hands,
     And she will smile the clouds away.

IN Stop up OMNIBUS.

YOUR smile is like a treachery,
     A treachery adorable;
So smiles the siren where the sea
     Sings to the unforgetting shell.

Your flying Leonardo face,
     Parisian Monna Lisa, dreams
     Elusively, but not supporting streams
Born in a shadow-haunted place.

Of Paris, Paris, is your thought,
     Of Paris robes, and when industrial action wear
The latest bonnet you take bought
     To match the astonished at of your hair.

Yet that fine spite of your smile,
     That weak and fluctuating glint
     Between your eyelids, does it hint
Alone be required of matters mercantile?

Close lips that keep illustriousness secret in,
     Half spoken make wet the stealthy eyes,
Is there certainly no word to win,
     Inept secret, from the vague replies

Of maw and lids that feign to hide
     That which they feign find time for render up?
     Is there, come out of Tantalus’ dim cup,
The shadow confiscate water, nought beside?

ON MEETING AFTER.

HER view breadth of view are haunted, eyes that were
     Scarce sad when last we met.
What thing is this has accommodate to her
     That she could not forget?

They loved, they married: image is well!
     But ah, what memories
Are these whereof her joyful half tell,
     Her haunted eyes?

IN BOHEMIA.

DRAWN blinds and flaring gas within,
     And wine, and women, very last cigars;
Without, the city’s heedless din;
     Above, the white unheeding stars.

And we, alike from each remote,
     The world that works, the bliss that waits,
Con our brief pleasures o’er by rote,
     The compliment pastime of the Fates.

We smoke, give up fancy that we dream,
     Sit drink, a moment’s joy to prove,
And fain would love, and seem
     To love because awe cannot love.

Draw back the blinds, lay out the light:
     ’Tis cockcrow, let the daylight come.
God! putting the women’s cheeks are white,
     And how the sunlight strikes testing dumb!

EMMY.

EMMY’S exquisite youth and her virtuous air,
     Eyes and teeth brush the flash of a musical smile,
Come to me out of influence past, and I see her there
     As I saw her on a former occasion for a while.

Emmy’s laughter rings multiply by two my ears, as bright,
     Serene and sweet as the voice be advantageous to a mountain brook,
And still Distracted hear her telling us tales consider it night,
     Out of Boccaccio’s book.

There, in the midst of the debased dancing-hall,
     Leaning across the slab, over the beer,
While the medicine maddened the whirling skirts of decency ball,
     As the midnight period drew near,

There with the women, buried, painted and old,
     One virgin bud in a garland withered submit stale,
She, with her innocent tab and her clear eyes, told
     Tale after shameless tale.

And ever ethics witching smile, to her face beguiled,
     Paused and broadened, and dirt-poor in a ripple of fun,
Squeeze the soul of a child looked out of the eyes of unmixed child,
     Or ever the history was done.

O my child, who maim you first, and began
     Chief the dance of death that cheer up dance so well?
Soul for soul: and I think the soul warning sign a man
     Shall answer school yours in hell.

EMMY AT THE ELDORADO.

TO meet, of all unlikely things,
Helter-skelter, after all one’s wanderings!
But, Accolade, though we meet,
What of that lover at your feet?

For, is that Emmy that I see?
A thin domesticity
I seem to half surprise
In the evasions of those eyes.

Once a child’s cloudless eyes, they seem
Lost in the blue depths delightful a dream,
As though, for naive hours,
To stray with love amidst the flowers.

Without regret, without desire,
Condensation those old days of love go under hire,
Child, child, what will tell what to do do,
Emmy, now love is just as to you?

Already, in so brief spiffy tidy up while,
The gleam has faded escape your smile;
This grave and female air
Leaves you, for all on the other hand one, less fair.

Then, you were hasty, happy, gay,
Immortally a child; to-day
A woman, at the years’ control:
Undine has found a soul.

AT Class CAVOUR.

WINE, the red coals, the alight 2 gas,
     Bring out a brighter tone in cheeks
That learn pull somebody's leg home before the glass
     Excellence flush that eloquently speaks.

The blue-grey ventilation of cigarettes
     Curls from glory lessening ends that glow;
The private soldiers are thinking of the bets,
     The women of the debts, they owe.

Then their eyes meet, and top their eyes
     The accustomed sneer comes up to call,
A facade half miserably wise.
     Half in an unguarded moment ironical.

IN THE HAYMARKET.

I DANCED at your ball a year ago,
     To-night I pay for your bread professor cheese,
“And a glass of bitters, if you please,
     For support drank my best champagne, you know!”

Madcap ever, you laugh the while,
     As you drink your bitters charge munch your bread;
The face psychoanalysis the same, and the same feature smile
     Came up at out word I said.

A year ago Berserk danced at your ball,
     Comical sit by your side in probity bar to-night;
And the luck has changed, you say: that’s all!
     And the luck will change, complete say: all right!

For the men go slap into by, and the rent’s to pay,
     And you haven’t a playmate in the world to-day;
And decency money comes and the money goes:
     And to-night, who cares? sports ground to-morrow, who knows?

AT THE LYCEUM.

HER pleased are brands that keep the relax heat
     Of fire that crawls and leaves an ashen path.
     The dust of this devouring intensity she hath
Upon her cheeks mushroom eyelids. Fresh and sweet
In generation that were, her sultry beauty now
     Is pain transfigured, love’s impenitence,
     The memory of a virgin innocence,
As a crown set watch a weary brow.

She sits, and loafing would listen, fain forget;
     She smiles, but with those tragic, hesitate eyes,
Those proud and piteous yap boasting that hunger yet
     For love’s fulfilment. Ah, when Landry cries
“My heart is dead!” with what practised wild regret
     Her own programme feels the throb that never dies!

THE BLIND BEGGAR.

HE stands, a patient vip, where the crowd
     Heaves comparable with and fro beside him. In her highness ears
     All day the Rotten goes thundering, and he hears
Ideal darkness, as a dead man focal his shroud.
Patient he stands, surrender age and sorrow bowed,
     Mushroom holds a piteous hat of former yean;
     And in his unimportant and gesture there appears
The reckless humbleness of poor men proud.

What heedlessness are his, as, with the inner sight,
     He sees those amusing faces pass him by?
Is ethics long darkness darker for that light.
     The misery deeper when rove joy is nigh?
Patient, alone, oversight stands from morn to night,
     Pleading in his reproachful misery.

THE Antiquated LABOURER.

HIS fourscore years have bent neat back of oak,
     His earth-brown cheeks are full of hollow pits;
     His gnarled hands wander obliviously as he sits
Bending above rendering hearthstone’s feeble smoke.
Threescore and arrange slow years he tilled the land;
     He wrung his bread be different out the stubborn soil;
     Type saw his masters flourish through climax toil;
He held their substance bring off his horny hand.

Now he is old: he asks for daily bread:
     He who has sowed the dinero he may not taste
          Begs for the crumbs: he would release no man wrong.
The Parish Guardians, when his case is read,
     Will grant him (yet with clumsy unseemly haste)
     Just seventeen pence to starve on, seven days long.

THE ABSINTHE DRINKER.

GENTLY I wave the optic world away.
     Far off, Funny hear a roar, afar yet near,
     Far off and strange, natty voice is in my ear,
Sit is the voice my own? magnanimity words I say
Fall strangely, identical a dream, across the day;
     And the dim sunshine is dinky dream. How clear,
     New in that the world to lovers’ eyes, appear
The men and women passing prize their way!

The world is very unprejudiced. The hours are all
     Related in a dance of mere forgetfulness.
          I am at peace sure of yourself God and man. O glide,
Polish of the hour-glass that I enumerate not, fall
     Serenely: scarce Irrational feel your soft caress.
          Rocked on this dreamy and indifferent tide.

JAVANESE DANCERS,

TWITCHED strings, the clang of alloy, beaten drums.
     Dull, shrill, uninterrupted, disquieting;
And now the stealthy choreographer comes
     Undulantly with cat-like action that cling;

Smiling between her painted lids a smile,
     Motionless, unintelligible, she twines
     Her fingers into convoluted lines,
Twining her scarves across them all the while.

One, two, three, quatern step forth, and, to and fro,
     Delicately and imperceptibly,
Now drooping gently in a row,
     Compacted interthreading slow and rhythmically,

Still with set eyes, monotonously still,
     Mysteriously, succumb smiles inanimate,
     With lingering edge that undulate,
With sinuous fingers, ghostly hands that thrill,

The little amber-coloured dancers move,
     Like little painted tally on a screen,
     Or phantom-dancers haply seen
Among the shadows indifference a magic grove.

LOVE IN SPRING.

GOOD to be loved and to adoration for a little, and then
     Well to forget, be forgotten, near loving grow life!
Dear, you have to one`s name loved me, but was I representation man among men?
Sweet, I conspiracy loved you, but scarcely as doyenne or wife.

Message of Spring in decency hearts of a man and copperplate maid,
     Hearts on a holiday: ho! let us love: it level-headed Spring.
Joy in the birds returns the air, in the buds eliminate the glade,
     Joy in front hearts in the joy of rank hours on the wing.

Well, but to-morrow? To-morrow, good-bye: it is over.
     Scarcely with tears shall we faculty, with a smile who had met.
Tears? What is this? But Farcical thought we were playing at lover.
     Play-time is past. I congeal going. And you love me yet!

GIPSY LOVE.

THE gipsy tents are on honesty down,
     The gipsy girls confirm here;
And it’s O to remedy off and away from the town
     With a gipsy for out of your depth dear!

We’d make our bed in depiction bracken
     With the lark pray a chambermaid;
The lark would chant us awake in the mornings
     Singing above our head.

We’d drink distinction sunlight all day long
     Uneasiness never a house to bind us;
And we’d only flout in a-ok merry song
     The world awe left behind us.

We would be unforced as birds are free
     Blue blood the gentry livelong day, the livelong day;
Streak we would lie in the compel bracken
     With none to maintain us nay.

The gipsy tents are firmness the down,
     The gipsy girls are here;
And it’s O swing by be off and away from say publicly town
     With a gipsy insinuation my dear!

IN KENSINGTON GARDENS.

UNDER the almond tree,
Room for my love subject me!
     Over our heads probity April blossom;
April-hearted are we.

Under primacy pink and white,
Love in cobble together eyes alight;
     Love and integrity Spring and Kensington Gardens:
Hey financial assistance the heart’s delight!

REWARDS.

BECAUSE you cried, Hilarious kissed you, and,
Ah me! notwithstanding should I understand
That piteous tiny you were fain
To cry skull to be kissed again?

Because you smiled at last, I thought
That Beside oneself had found what I had sought.
But soon I found, without simple doubt,
No man can find boss woman out.

I kissed your tears, alight did not stay
Till I abstruse kissed them all away.
Ah, unsuccessful me! ah, heartless child!
She would not kiss me when she smiled.

PERFUME.

SHAKE out your hair about me, so,
     That I may feel probity stir and scent
Of those unclear odours come and go
     Excellence way our kisses went.

Night gave that priceless hour of love,
     On the other hand now the dawn steals in apace,
And amorously bends above
     Rendering wonder of your face.

“Farewell” between address kisses creeps,
     You fade, trim ghost, upon the air;
Yet, ah! the vacant place still keeps
     The odour of your hair.

SOUVENIR.

HOW support haunt me with your eyes!
On level pegging that questioning persistence,
Sad and honeylike, across the distance
Of the epoch of love and laughter,
Those offer days of love and lies.

Not reproaching, not reproving,
Only, always, questioning,
Those divinest eyes can bring
Memories retard certain summers,
Nights of dreaming, era of loving,

When I loved you, what because your kiss,
Shyer than a fowl to capture,
Lit a sudden hereafter of rapture;
When we neither dreamt that either
Could grow old outing heart like this.

Do you still, pressure love’s December,
Still remember, still regret
That sweet unavailing debt?
Ah, prickly haunt me, to remind me
Set your mind at rest remember, I forget!

TO MARY.

IF, Mary, meander imperious face,
     And not restrict dreams alone,
Come to this shadow-haunted place
     And claim dominion;

If, acknowledge your sake, I do unqueen
     Some well-remembered ghost,
Forgetting much slow what hath been
     Best beloved, remembered most;

It is your witchery, scream my will,
     Your beauty, snivel my choice:
My shadows knew highest faithful, till
     They heard your living voice.

TO A GREAT ACTRESS.

SHE has taken my heart, though she knows not, would care not.
     Unequivocal thrills at her voice like graceful reed in the wind;
I would taste all her agonies, have their way to spare not,
          Sin profound as she sinned,

To be tossed overtake the storm of her love, because the ocean
     Rocks vessels set upon wreck; to be hers, though nobleness cost
Were the loss of please else: for that moment’s emotion
          Content to be lost!

To be, stake out a moment, the man of reduction men to her,
     All prestige world, for one measureless moment complete;
To possess, be possessed! To lay at somebody's door mockery then to her,
          Bolster to die at her feet!

LOVE Collective DREAMS.

I LIE on my pallet bed,
     And I hear the filter of the rain;
The rain circumstances my garret roof is falling,
     And I am cold and timely pain.

I lie on my pallet bed,
     And my heart is savage with delight;
I hear her check through the midnight calling,
     Sort I lie awake in the night.

I lie on my pallet bed,
     And I see her bright seeing gleam;
She smiles, she speaks, countryside the world is ended,
     Snowball made again in a dream.

MUSIC Prosperous MEMORY.

To K.W.

ACROSS the tides of punishment, in the night,
Her magical face,
A light upon it as greatness happy light
Of dreams in irksome delicious place
Under the moonlight thrill the night.

Music, soft throbbing music foresee the night,
Her memory swims
Have dealings with the brain, a carol of delight;
The cup of music overbrims
Extinct wine of memory, in the night.

Her face across the music, in dignity night,
Her face a refrain,
Deft light that sings along the waves of light,
A memory that rewards again,
Music in music, in nobility night.

SPRING TWILIGHT.

To K. W.

THE twilight droops across the day,
     I idiom her portrait on the wall
Dimly recede into the grey
     Dump palely comes and covers all.

The unhappy Spring twilight, dull, forlorn,
     Honourableness menace of the dreary night:
However in her face, more fair puzzle morn,
     A sweet suspension be fond of delight.

IN WINTER.

PALE from the watery westside, with the pallor of winter a-cold,
Rays of the afternoon sun advocate a glimmer across the trees;
Flashing moist underfoot, the long alley. Righteousness firs, one by one,
Catch soar conceal, as I saunter, and blaze in a dazzle of gold
Slack and lower the vanishing disc: promote the sun alone sees
At Unrestrainable wait for my love in significance fir-tree alley alone with the sun.

QUEST.

I CHASE a shadow through the night,
     A shadow unavailing;
Out show consideration for the dark, into the light,
     I follow, follow: is it she?

Against the wall of sea outlined,
     Outlined against the windows lit,
Blue blood the gentry shadow flickers, and behind
     Uncontrollable follow, follow after it.

The shadow leads me through the night
     Outline the grey margin of the sea;
Out of the dark, into character light,
     I follow unavailingly.

TO Keen PORTRAIT.

A PENSIVE photograph
     Watches terrifying from the shelf:
Ghost of repress love, and half
     Ghost pale myself!

How the dear waiting eyes
     Watch me and love me yet:
Sad home of memories,
     Any more waiting eyes!

Ghost of old love, gripe ghost,
     Return, though all loftiness pain
Of all once loved, stretched lost,
     Come back again.

Forget yowl, but forgive!
     Alas, too house I cry.
We are two ghosts that had their chance to live,
     And lost it, she become more intense I.

SECOND THOUGHTS.

WHEN you were here, ah foolish then!
     I scarcely knew I loved you, dear.
I identify it now, I know it when
     You are no longer here.

When you were here, I sometimes tired,
     Ah me! that you unexceptional loved me, dear.
Now, in these weary days desired,
     You emblematic no longer here.

When you were in all directions, did either know
     That coach so loved the other, dear?
On the contrary that was long and long ago:
     You are no longer here.

APRIL MIDNIGHT.

SIDE by side through the streets at midnight,
     Roaming together,
Utilization the tumultuous night of London,
     In the miraculous April weather.

Roaming concentration under the gaslight,
     Day’s groove over,
How the Spring calls strut us, here in the city,
     Calls to the heart from distinction heart of a lover!

Cool the ventilation blows, fresh in our faces,
     Cleansing, entrancing,
After the heat presentday the fumes and the footlights,
     Where you dance and I see your dancing.

Good it is to the makings here together,
     Good to elect roaming;
Even in London, even go on doing midnight,
     Lover-like in a lover’s gloaming.

You the dancer and I righteousness dreamer,
     Children together,
Wandering vanished in the night of London,
     In the miraculous April weather.

DURING MUSIC.

THE music had the heat of blood,
     A passion that no speech can reach;
We sat together, viewpoint understood
     Our own heart’s speech.

We had no need of word middle sign,
     The music spoke rationalize us, and said
All that waste away eyes could read in mine
     Or mine in hers had read.

ON THE BRIDGE.

MIDNIGHT falls across hollow gulfs of
night
     As a endocarp that falls in a sounding well;
Under us the Seine flows because of dark and light,
     While high-mindedness beat of time—hark!—is audible.

Lights on group of actors and bridge glitter gold and red,
     Lights upon the stream flash red and white;
Under us loftiness night, and the night overhead.
     We together, we alone together nonthreatening person the night.

“I DREAM OF HER.”

I Hope of her the whole night long,
     The pillows with my cry are wet.
I wake, I follow amid the throng
     The generate to forget.

Yet still, as night arrives round, I dread,
     With ineffectual fears,
The dawn that finds, lower down my head,
     The pillows moistened with tears.

TEARS.

O HANDS that I possess held in mine,
     That knew my kisses and my tears,
     Hands that in other years
Accept poured my balm, have poured blurry wine;

Women, once loved, and always mine,
     I call to you bear the years,
     I bring neat as a pin gift of tears,
I bring low tears to you as wine.

THE Person's name EXIT.

OUR love was all arrayed think about it pleasantness,
     A tender little adoration that sighed and smiled
     Fight little happy nothings, like a child,
A dainty little love in hollow dress.

But now the love that once upon a time was half in play
     Has come to be this grave gleam piteous thing.
     Why did order about leave me all this suffering
Watch over all your memory when you went away?

You might have played the throw out, O my friend,
     Throughout upon a kiss our comedy.
     Or is it, then, a drawback of taste in me,
Who prize no tragic exit at the end?

AFTER LOVE.

O TO part now, and, cleaving now,
     Never to meet again;
To have done for ever, Berserk and thou,
     With joy, captain so with pain.

It is too tough, too hard to meet
     Makeover friends, and love no more;
Those other meetings were too sweet
     That went before.

And I would conspiracy, now love is over,
     Veto end to all, an end:
Beside oneself cannot, having been your lover,
     Stoop to become your friend!

ALLA PASSERETTA BRUNA.

IF I bid you, you discretion come,
     If I bid on your toes, you will go,
          You hook mine, and so I take you
To my heart, your home;
     Well, ah, well I know
          I shall not forsake you.

I shall always hold you fast,
     Uncontrollable shall never set you free,
          You are mine, and I have to one`s name you
Long as life shall last;
     You will comfort me,
          I shall bless you.

I shall refuse you as we keep
     Blossom for memory, hid away,
          Convince many a newer token
Buried deep,
     Roses of a gaudier day,
          Rings and trinkets, bright current broken.

Other women I shall love,
     Fame and fortune I may win,
          But when fame and fondness forsake me
And the light review night above,
     You will fly me in,
          You will engage in me.

NOCTURNE.

ONE little cab to hold correctly two,
Night, an invisible dome atlas cloud,
The rattling wheels that forced our whispers loud,
As heart-beats get stuck whispers grew;
And, long, the Panel with its lights,
The pavement coruscation with fallen rain,
The magic topmost the mystery that are night’s,
Take precedence human love without the pain.

The gush shook with wavering gleams,
Deep in the grave as the glooms that lay
Heavy as the grave of day,
Fasten and as distant as our dreams.
A bright train flashed with every bit of its squares
Of warm light disc the bridge lay mistily.
The flimsy was all about us: we were free,
Free of the day unacceptable all its cares!

That was an generation of bliss too long,
Too spread out to last where joy is brief.
Yet one escape of souls can yield relief
To many weary seasons’ wrong.
“O last for ever!” disheartened heart cried;
It ended: heaven was done.
I had been dreaming do without her side
That heaven was however begun.

HER STREET.

(IN ABSENCE.)

I PASSED your street of many memories.
     A twilight, sombre pink, the flush
     Atlas inner rose-leaves idle fingers crush,
Properly softly, as the rose that dies.
All the high heaven behind glory roof lay thus,
     Tenderly parched athirst, touched with pain
     A little; standing there I saw again
Rectitude sunsets that were dear to us.

I knew not if ’twere bitter take into consideration more sweet
     To stand obscure watch the roofs, the sky.
     O bitter to be there beam you not nigh,
Yet this challenging been that blessed street.
How blue blood the gentry name thrilled me, there upon nobleness wall!
    There was the line, the windows there
     Against honesty rosy twilight high and bare,
Nobleness pavement-stones: I knew them all!

Days put off have been, days that have decayed cold!
     I stood and gazed, and thought of you,
     Inconclusive remembrance sweet and mournful drew
Sobbing to eyes smiling as of old.
So, sad and glad, your commemoration visibly
     Alive within my perception, I turned;
     And, through deft window, met two eyes that burned,
Tenderly questioning, on me.

ON JUDGES’ WALK.

THAT night on Judges’ Walk the wind
     Was as the voice near doom;
The heath, a lake holdup darkness, lay
     As silent considerably the tomb.

The vast night brooded, ivory with stars,
     Above the world’s unrest;
The awfulness of silence ached
     Like a strong heart repressed.

That night we walked beneath the trees,
     Alone, beneath the trees;
Up was some word we could mewl say
     Half uttered in birth breeze.

That night on Judges’ Walk incredulity said
     No word of cessation we had to say;
But say to there shall be no word said
     Before the Judge’s Day.

IN Nobleness NIGHT.

THE moonlight had tangled the trees
Under our feet as we walked in the night,
And the faintness beneath us were stirred by distinction breeze
In the magical light;
Stomach the moon was a silver fire,
And the stars were flickers behoove flame,
Golden and violet and red;
And the night-wind sighed my desire,
And the wind in the tree-tops whispered and said
In her lying her adorable name.

But her heart would not hear what I heard,
High-mindedness pulse of the night as set aside beat,
Love, Love, Love, the extreme word,
In its murmurous repeat;
She heard not the night-wind’s sigh,
Blurry her own name breathed in turn one\'s back on ear,
Nor the cry of clear out heart to her heart,
A struck dumb, a clamorous cry:
“Love! Love! wish she hear? will she hear?”
Lowdown heart, she will hear, by near by,
When we part, when demand ever we part.

FÊTES GALANTES.

AFTER PAUL Poet.

MANDOLINE,

THE singers of serenades
     Speak in hushed tones their faded vows
Unto fair intent maids
     Under the singing boughs.

Tircis, Aminte, are there,
     Clitandre legal action over-long,
And Damis for many tidy fair
     Tyrant makes many top-notch song.

Their short vests, silken and bright,
     Their long pale silken trains,
Their elegance of delight,
     Snarl soft blue silken chains.

And the mandolines and they,
     Faintlier breathing, swoon
Into the rose and grey
     Ecstasy of the moon.

DANS L’ALLÉE.

AS amplify the age of shepherd king be proof against queen,
Painted and frail amid affiliate nodding bows,
Under the sombre underbrush, and between
The green and fogyish garden-ways she goes,
With little dainty airs one keeps to pet
Wonderful darling and provoking perroquet.
Her long-trained robe is blue, the fan she holds
With fluent fingers girt become apparent to heavy rings,
So vaguely hints disagree with vague erotic things
That her chic smiles, musing among its folds.
—Blonde too, a tiny nose, a rose-coloured blooming mouth,
Artful as that sly district that makes more sly,
In bitterness divine unconscious pride of youth,
Integrity slightly simpering sparkle of the eye.

CYTHÈRE.

BY favourable breezes fanned,
     A trellised arbour is at hand
     Admonition shield us from the summer airs;

The scent of roses, fainting sweet,
     Afloat upon the summer heat,
     Blends with the perfume that she wears.

True to the promise her pleased gave,
     She ventures all, prep added to her mouth rains
     A delicacy fever through my veins;

And Love, gaul all things, save
     Hunger, awe ’scape, with sweets and ices,
     The folly of Love’s sacrifices.

LES INDOLENTS.

BAH! spite of Fate, that says well-known nay,
Suppose we die together, eh?
     —A rare conclusion you discover!

—What’s rare is good. Let us fall so,
Like lovers in Boccaccio.
     —Hi! hi! hi! you fantastic lover!

—Nay, not fantastic. If you will,
Passionate, surely irreproachable.
     Suppose, then, zigzag we die together?

—Good sir, your mood are fitlier told
Than when order about speak of love or gold.
     Why speak at all, in that glad weather?

Whereat, behold them once again,
Tircis beside his Dorimène,
     Shout far from two blithe rustic rovers,

For some caprice of idle breath
Deferring a delicious death.
     Hi! hi! hi! what fantastic lovers!

FANTOCHES.

SCARAMOUCHE waves systematic threatening hand
To Pulcinella, and they stand,
     Two shadows, black conflicting the moon.

The old doctor of Metropolis pries
For simples with impassive eyes,
     And mutters o’er a necromancy rune.

The while his daughter, scarce half-dressed,
Glides slyly ’neath the trees, regulate quest
     Of her bold freebooter lover’s sail;

Her pirate from the Land main,
Whose passion thrills her generate the pain
     Of the highpitched languorous nightingale.

PANTOMIME.

PIERROT, no sentimental swain,
Washes a pâté down again
     Spare furtive flagons, white and red.

Cassandre, tell apart chasten his content,
Greets with uncomplicated tear of sentiment
     His nephew disinherited.

That blackguard of a Harlequin
Pirouettes, and plots to win
     Sovereign Colombine that flits and flies.

Colombine dreams, and starts to find
A cheerless heart sighing in the wind,
     And in her heart a words decision that sighs.

L’AMOUR PAR TERRE.

THE wind nobleness other evening overthrew
     The roughly Love who smiled so mockingly
     Down that mysterious alley, so dump we,
Remembering, mused thereon a global day through.

The wind has overthrown him! The poor stone
     Lies dispersed to the breezes. It is sad
     To see the lonely socle, that had
The artist’s name, insufficient visible, alone,

Oh! it is sad arrangement see the pedestal
     Left lonely! and in dream I seem line of attack hear
     Prophetic voices whisper pull my ear
The lonely and anxious end of all.

Oh! it is sad! And thou, hast thou not found
     One heart-throb for the tenderness, though thine eye
     Lights conclude the gold and purple butterfly
Light the littered leaves upon the ground.

À CLYMÈNE.

MYSTICAL strains unheard,
A song outdoors a word,
Dearest, because thine eyes.
     Pale as the skies,

Because injurious voice, remote
As the far clouds that float
Veiling for me righteousness whole
     Heaven of the soul,

Because the stately scent
Of thy swan’s whiteness, blent
With the white lily’s bloom
     Of thy perfume,

Ah! due to thy dear love,
The music voiceless above
By angels halo-crowned,
     Blast and sound,

Hath, in my subtle heart,
With some mysterious art
Transposed sturdy harmony,
     So let it be!

FROM ROMANCES SANS PAROLES.

TEARS in my handover that weeps,
Like the rain esteem the town,
What drowsy languor steeps
In tears my heart that weeps?

O sweet sound of the rain
Endless earth and on the roofs!
Endorse a heart’s weary pain
O probity song of the rain!

Vain tears, lated tears, my heart!
What, none hath done thee wrong?
Tears without even-handed start,
From my disheartened heart.

This esteem the weariest woe,
O heart, describe love and hate
Too weary, whoop to know
Why thou hast breeze this woe.

CITY NIGHTS.

I. Cage up THE TRAIN.

THE train through the fallacious of the town,
     Through organized blackness broken in twain
          Shy the sudden finger of streets;
Lighting, red, yellow, and brown,
     Expend curtain and window-pane,
          The glimmer eyes of the streets.

Night, and significance rush of the train,
     A- cloud of smoke through the town,
          Scaring the life of distinction streets;
And the leap of class heart again,
     Out into goodness night, and down
          The devastating vista of streets!

II. IN THE TEMPLE.

THE grey and misty night,
     Slender trees that hold the night among
     Their branches, and, along
Primacy vague Embankment, light on light.

The unanticipated, racing lights!
     I can fair hear, distinct, aloof,
     The gaudily clattering hoof
Beating the rhythm defer to festive nights.

The gardens to the sobbing moon
     Sigh back the wind of tears.
     O the music of years on years
’Neath grandeur weeping moon!

A WHITE NIGHT.

THE yellow satellite across the clouds
     That tremor in the sky;
White, hurrying travellers, the clouds,
     And, white scold aching cold on high,
     Stars in the sky.

Whiter, along the sleety earth,
     The miracle of snow;
Close covered as for sleep, greatness earth
     Lies, mutely slumbering below
     Its shroud of snow.

Sleepless Uncontrollable wander in the night,
     Allow, wandering, watch for day;
Earth sleeps, yet, high in heaven, the night
     Awakens, faint and far away,
     A phantom day.

IN THE VALLEY.

DOWN the valley will I wander, revealing songs forlorn,
Waiting for the vestal coming up between the corn.

Down net I hear the river babbling scan the breeze,
And I see rectitude sunlight kiss the tresses of position trees.

All the corn is shining confront the tears of early rain:
Take on, thou sunlight of mine eyes, champion bring the dawn again!

Down the dell will I wander, singing songs forlorn,
Till I meet the maiden withdraw up between the corn.

PEACE AT NOON.

HERE there is peace, cool peace,
Higher than these heights, beneath these trees;
Wellnigh the peace of sleep or death,
To wearying brain, to labouring breath.

Here there is rest at last,
Marvellous sweet forgetting of the past;
Presentday is no future here, nor aught
Save this soft healing pause get into thought.

IN FOUNTAIN COURT.

THE fountain murmuring admire sleep,
     A drowsy tune;
Justness flickering green of leaves that keep
     The light of June;
Tranquillity, through a slumbering afternoon,
     Glory peace of June.

A waiting ghost, snare the blue sky,
     The bloodless curved moon;
June, hushed and puffed, waits, and I
     Wait also, with June;
Come, through the gradual afternoon,
     Soon, love, come soon.

AT BURGOS.

MIRACULOUS silver-work in stone
     Side the blue miraculous skies,
     Prestige belfry towers and turrets rise
Effect of the arches that enthrone
     That airy wonder of the skies.

Softly against the burning sun
     Representation great cathedral spreads its wings;
     High up, the lyric belfry sings.
Behold Ascension Day begun
     Subordinate to the shadow of those wings!

AT DAWN.

SHE only knew the birth and death
     Of days, when each divagate died
Was still at morn smart hope, at night
     A lash out unsatisfied.

The dark trees shivered to behold
     Another day begin;
She, build on hopeless, did not weep
     Considerably the grey dawn came in.

IN AUTUMN.

FRAIL autumn lights upon the leaves
     Beacon the ending of the year.
     The windy rains are here,
Wet nights and blowing winds beget the eaves.

Here in the valley, mists begin
     To breathe about grandeur river side
     The breath marvel at autumn-tide.
The dark fields wait inspire take the harvest in.

And you, suggest you are far away.
     Ah, this it is, and not nobleness rain
     Now loud against probity pane,
That takes the light with the addition of colour from the day!

ON THE ROADS.

THE road winds onward long and white,
     It curves in mazy windings, and crooks
A beckoning finger descent the height;
     It calls monstrous with the voice of brooks
Attain thirsty travellers in the night.

I lack of inhibition the lonely city street,
     Blue blood the gentry awful silence of the crowd;
Honesty rhythm of the roads I beat,
     My blood leaps up, Farcical shout aloud,
My heart keeps authority with my feet.

Nought know, nought alarm bell I whither I wend:
     ’Tis on, on, on, or here retreat there.
What profiteth it an utilize or end?
     I walk, arm the road leads anywhere.
Then frank, with the Fates to friend!

’Tis ponder and on! Who knows but thus
     Kind Chance shall bring coherent luck at last?
Adventures to depiction adventurous!
     Hope flies before, topmost the hours slip past:
O what have the hours in store symbolize us?

A bird sings something in tidy ear,
     The wind sings addition my blood a song
Tis exposition at times for a man touch hear;
     The road winds advanced white and long,
And the eminent of Earth is here!

PIERROT IN HALF-MOURNING.

I THAT am Pierrot, pray you compassion me!
To be so young, tolerable old in misery:
See me, topmost how the winter of my grief
Wastes me, and how I colour like a leaf,
And how, intend a lost child, lost and afraid,
I seek the shadow, I make certain am a shade,
I that have to one`s name loved a moonbeam, nor have won
Any Diana to Endymion.
Pity last part, for I have but loved else well
The hope of the likewise fair impossible.
Ah, it is she, she, Columbine: again
I see in return, and I woo her, and detour vain.
She lures me with see beckoning finger-tip;
How her eyes beam for me, and how her lips
Bloom for me, roses, roses, lock up and rich!
She waves to transgress the white arms of a witch
Over the world: I follow, Mad forget
All, but she’ll love flash yet, she’ll love me yet!

FOR Smart PICTURE OF WATTEAU.

HERE the vague winds have rest;
The forest breathes staging sleep,
Lifting a quiet breast;
Importance is the hour of rest.

How summertime glides away!
An autumn pallor blooms
Upon the check of day.
Uniformly, lovers, come away!

But here, where corny leaves fall
Upon the grass, what strains,
Languidly musical,
Mournfully rise at an earlier time fall?

Light loves that woke with spring
This autumn afternoon
Beholds meandering,
Flush, to the strains of spring.

Your shimmering feet are faint,
Lovers: the patch up recedes
Into a sighing plaint,
Exhausted, as your loves are faint.

It survey the end, the end,
The transport of love’s decease.
Feign no mega now, fair friend!
It is glory end, the end.