Theban mage, druid by the dark menhir,
Flamen by Tiber, Brahmin by the Ganges,
Fitting angelic arrow to godlike bow,
Viewing the haunts of Roland, Achilles,
Powerful mysterious smith, you'd know
How to twine sun-rays to a single flame;
In your soul the sunset met the day;
Yesterday tomorrow in your fertile brain;
You crowned the old art father of the new;
You understood that when an unknown soul
Speaks to a nation, lightning in the clouds,
We must open our hearts, accept, love aloud;
Calm you scorned the vile attempts of those
Who
dribbled
Shakespeare, drooled Aeschylus;
You knew this age had its own air to breathe,
That art progresses by self-transformation,
Beauty's adorned by melding with greatness.
19th Century French Poetry
I know you are waiting for me.
I'll travel the forest; I'll travel the mountain,
I can't stay away any longer, you see.
I'll stride out with only my thought in sight,
Seeing nothing beyond, without hearing a sound,
Alone and unknown, back bowed, folded hands,
Sad, since daylight to me will seem night.
I'll not witness evening's golden cascade,
Nor the distant sails sinking down to Harfleur,
And when I arrive, I shall place on your grave,
A sprig of green holly, and heather in flower.
Ave, Dea; moriturus te salutat
(Hail, Goddess; he who is about to die salutes you)
To Judith Gautier
Death and beauty are two things profound,
So of dark and azure, that one might say that
They were two sisters terrible and fecund
Possessing the one enigma, the one secret.
O women, voices, gazes, black hair, blonde tresses,
Blaze out, I die!
Own to light, love, attraction,
O pearls the sea mingles with its great masses,
O gleaming birds of the forest's sombre ocean!
Judith, our fates are closer to one another's
Than one might think, seeing my face and yours:
The whole divine abyss is present in your eyes,
And I feel the starry gulf within my soul;
We are both neighbours of the silent skies.
Madame, since you're beautiful, and I'm old.
June Nights
In summer, when day has fled, when covered with flowers
The distant plain sheds sweet intoxication;
Eyes closed, and ears half-open to muted hours,
We lie only half-asleep in transparent slumber.
The stars seem purer the shade is more delightful;
A hazy half-light colours the dome on high;
And dawn, pale and tender, awaiting her moment,
Seems to wander about all night in the deeps of the sky.
To Theophile Gautier
Friend, poet spirit, you have fled our night,
You left our noise, to penetrate the light;
Now your name will shine on pure summits.
I who knew you young and beautiful, I
Who loved you, I who in our great flights,
Distraught, took comfort from your loyal spirit.
I, white with the years that snow down on my head,
Remembering times past, I dream, instead,
Of those young days that saw our dawn,
The struggle, the loud arena, the storm,
The new art offered to the mob's screaming,
And hear, yes, that vast sublime blast fading.
Son of ancient Greece and the new France,
Fierce your respect for the dead, full of hope;
You never shut your eyes to the future.
Theban mage, druid by the dark menhir,
Flamen by Tiber, Brahmin by the Ganges,
Fitting angelic arrow to godlike bow,
Viewing the haunts of Roland, Achilles,
Powerful mysterious smith, you'd know
How to twine sun-rays to a single flame;
In your soul the sunset met the day;
Yesterday tomorrow in your fertile brain;
You crowned the old art father of the new;
You understood that when an unknown soul
Speaks to a nation, lightning in the clouds,
We must open our hearts, accept, love aloud;
Calm you scorned the vile attempts of those
Who
dribbled
Shakespeare, drooled Aeschylus;
You knew this age had its own air to breathe,
That art progresses by self-transformation,
Beauty's adorned by melding with greatness.
And you were heard to utter cries of joy,
When Drama gripped Paris in its teeth,
When spring chased ancient winter away,
When the wondrous star of new ideals,
Suddenly glittered in the burning sky,
And the Hippogriff stole Pegasus' place.
On the tomb's severe sill I greet you,
You knew the beautiful, go find the true.
Climb the harsh stair.
From the black steps' height,
The arches of the dark bridge loom in sight;
Go!
Die!
The last step's the final hour.
Fly, Eagle, see the gulfs that you desired;
You'll view the absolute, real, sublime.
You'll feel the ominous wind on high
Know the vertigo of eternal wonder.
From heaven's top you'll see your Olympus,
From truth's tall summit Man's unreality,
Even Job's, and Homer's, and you'll view,
Soul, from God's height, Jehovah too.
Spirit, soar!
Hover higher on open wings!
When the living leave us, moved, I gaze,
For to enter death, is entering the temple;
And when a man dies, and goes his way,
I see my own ascent, clear, like crystal.
Friend, I feel fate's dark plenitude;
I have begun my death with solitude,
I see my own deep vaguely starlit night.
This is the hour when I too take flight.
My long thread trembles almost at the knife;
The breeze, that takes you, lifts me up alive,
And I'll follow those I loved, I the exile.
