That seems impossible, and, to my mind, poets have the right to hope after their death for the everlasting
happiness
that obtains complete knowledge of God, that is to say of the sublime beauty.
Appoloinaire
'To shelter Rosamunde from hate
borne her by the queen,
the king had a palace made
such as had ne'er been seen'.
By the flies who are they say
Divinities of snow.
All have not appeared in the form of snowflakes but many have been tamed by the Finnish or Lapp sorcerers and obey them. The magicians pass them from father to son and keep them imprisoned in a box where they are invisible, ready to fly out in a swarm and torment thieves, sounding out magic words, so they themselves are immortal.
Here's the slender grasshopper
The food that fed Saint John.
'And John was clothed with camel's hair, and with a girdle of a skin about his loins: and he did eat locusts and wild honey. ' Mark 1. 6
The female of the Halcyon,
Love, the seductive Sirens,
All know the fatal songs
Dangerous and inhuman.
The sailors, hearing the female Halycon sing, prepared to die, safe however around mid-December, when these birds make their nests, and one knows that then the sea will be calm. Like Love and the Sirens, these birds sing so melodiously that even the life of those who hear them is not too great a price to pay for such music.
This cherubim
One may distinguish among the angelic hierarchies, vowed to the service and glory of the divine, beings with unknown forms and the most amazing beauty. The cherubim are winged oxen, but in no way monstrous.
When the good God intends.
Those who practice poetry search for and love only the perfection that is God Himself. And will this divine grace, this supreme perfection depart those for whom life exists only to discover and glorify them?
That seems impossible, and, to my mind, poets have the right to hope after their death for the everlasting happiness that obtains complete knowledge of God, that is to say of the sublime beauty.
Index of First Lines
Under the Mirabeau flows the Seine
Brushed by the shadows of the dead
The anemone and flower that weeps
The angels the angels in the sky
I've gathered this sprig of heather
The strollers in the plain
My gipsy beau my lover
The gypsy knew in advance
I am bound to the King of the Sign of Autumn
An eagle descends from this sky white with archangels
Mellifluent moon on the lips of the maddened
Autumn ill and adored
The room is free
Our story's noble as its tragic
Love is dead within your arms
In the evening light that's faded
You've not surprised my secret yet
Evening falls and in the garden
You descended through the water clear
O my abandoned youth is dead
Admire the vital power
From magic Thrace, O delerium!
My harsh dreams knew the riding of you
The fleece of this goat and even
You set yourself against beauty.
I wish there to be in my house:
O lion, miserable image
Don't be fearful and lascivious
There's another cony I remember
With his four dromedaries
Sweet days, the mice of time,
I carry treasure in my mouth,
Look at this pestilential tribe
Work leads us to riches.
The songs that our flies know
Fleas, friends, lovers too,
Here's the slender grasshopper
His heart was the bait: the heavens were the pond!
Dolphins, playing in the sea
Hurling his ink at skies above,
Medusas, miserable heads
In your pools, and in your ponds,
The female of the Halcyon,
Do I know where your ennui's from, Sirens,
Dove, both love and spirit
In spreading out his fan, this bird,
My poor heart's an owl
Yes, I'll pass fearful shadows
This cherubim sings the praises
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