Their gaze draws me into
infinite
space.
19th Century French Poetry
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.
Their gaze draws me into infinite space.
I hasten there. Don't close the sombre gate.
Pass on; for it's the law; none can deny;
All leans; and this great age with all its light
Slides to the vast shadow where, pale, we flee.
Oh! The oaks they fell for Hercules' pyre,
What a harsh roar they make this night of fire!
Death's steeds neigh joyfully: the bright day flies;
Our great century that tamed the hostile winds
Expires. . . . their brother and their peer, O Gautier,
You join Dumas, Lamartine, Musset.
The ancient sea that made men young is dry,
Youth has no fountain, now there's no more Styx,
And the grim reaper with his pointed scythe
Steps forward, thoughtfully, to clear the field;
My turn arrives; night fills my troubled eye,
That from doves' flights, alas, reads coming days,
Weeps over cradles, smiles to see new graves.
Gerard de Nerval (1808-1855)
Gerard de Nerval
'Gerard de Nerval'
Frontispice pour Grandes Figures d'Hier et d'Aujourd'hui, 1852 - 1883
The New York Public Library: Digital Collections
Gothic Song
Beautiful spouse
I love your tears!
They're the dew
Befitting flowers.
Beautiful things
Have but one spring
With roses let's sow
Time's footprints!
Blonde or brunette
Must we select?
