'
(For your dear departed wife, his friend) 2 November 1877
- 'Over the lost woods when dark winter lowers
You moan, O solitary captive of the threshold,
That this double tomb which our pride should hold's
Cluttered, alas, only with absent weight of flowers.
(For your dear departed wife, his friend) 2 November 1877
- 'Over the lost woods when dark winter lowers
You moan, O solitary captive of the threshold,
That this double tomb which our pride should hold's
Cluttered, alas, only with absent weight of flowers.
Mallarme - Poems
.
'
Victoriously the grand suicide fled
Foaming blood, brand of glory, gold, tempest!
O laughter if only to royally invest
My absent tomb purple, down there, is spread.
What! Not even a fragment of all that brightness
Remains, it is midnight, in the shade that fetes us,
Except, from the head, there's a treasure, presumptuous,
That pours without light its spoiled languidness,
Yours, always such a delight! Yours, yes,
Retaining alone of the vanished sky, this
Trace of childish triumph as you spread each tress,
Gleaming as you show it against the pillows,
Like the helmet of war of a child-empress
From which, to denote you, would pour down roses.
Sonnet: 'Ses purs ongles tres haut. . . '
Her pure nails on high dedicating their onyx,
Anguish, at midnight, supports, a lamp-holder,
Many a twilight dream burnt by the Phoenix
That won't be gathered in some ashes' amphora
On a table, in the empty room: here is no ptyx,
Abolished bauble of sonorous uselessness,
(Since the Master's gone to draw tears from the Styx
With that sole object, vanity of Nothingness).
But near the casement wide to the north,
A gold is dying, in accord with the decor
Perhaps, those unicorns dashing fire at a nixie,
She who, naked and dead in the mirror, yet
In the oblivion enclosed by the frame, is fixed
As soon by scintillations as the septet.
(Note: The septet may indicate the constellation of Ursa Major in the north. )
Sonnet: 'Pour votre chere morte, son ami. . .
'
(For your dear departed wife, his friend) 2 November 1877
- 'Over the lost woods when dark winter lowers
You moan, O solitary captive of the threshold,
That this double tomb which our pride should hold's
Cluttered, alas, only with absent weight of flowers.
Unheard Midnight counts out his empty number,
Wakefulness urges you never to close an eye,
Before in the ancient armchair's embrace my
Shade is illuminated by the dying embers.
Who wishes to receive visitations often,
Mustn't load with too many flowers the stone
My finger raises with a dead power's boredom.
A soul trembling to sit by a hearth so bright,
To exist again, it's enough if I borrow from
Your lips the breath of my name you murmur all night. '
To The Sole Concern
To the sole task of voyaging
Beyond an India dark and splendid
- Goes time's messenger, this greeting,
Cape that your stern has doubled
As on some low yard plunging
Along with the vessel riding
Skimmed in constant frolicking
A bird bringing fresh tidings
That without the helm flickering
Shrieked in pure monotones
An utterly useless bearing
Night, despair, and precious stones
Reflected by its singing so
To the smile of pale Vasco.
All Summarised The Soul. . .
All summarised, the soul,
When slowly we breathe it out
In several rings of smoke
By other rings wiped out
Bears witness to some cigar
Burning skilfully while
The ash is separated far
From its bright kiss of fire
Should the choir of romantic art
Fly so towards your lips
Exclude from it if you start
The real because it's cheap
Meaning too precise is sure
To void your dreamy literature.
What Silk. . .
What silk of time's sweet balm
Where the Chimera tires himself
Is worth the coils and natural cloud
You tend before the mirror's calm?
The blanks of meditating flags
Stand high along our avenue:
But I've your naked tresses too
To bury there my contented eyes.
No! The mouth cannot be sure
Of tasting anything in its bite
Unless your princely lover cares
In that mighty brush of hair
To breathe out, like a diamond,
The cry of Glory stifled there.
Victoriously the grand suicide fled
Foaming blood, brand of glory, gold, tempest!
O laughter if only to royally invest
My absent tomb purple, down there, is spread.
What! Not even a fragment of all that brightness
Remains, it is midnight, in the shade that fetes us,
Except, from the head, there's a treasure, presumptuous,
That pours without light its spoiled languidness,
Yours, always such a delight! Yours, yes,
Retaining alone of the vanished sky, this
Trace of childish triumph as you spread each tress,
Gleaming as you show it against the pillows,
Like the helmet of war of a child-empress
From which, to denote you, would pour down roses.
Sonnet: 'Ses purs ongles tres haut. . . '
Her pure nails on high dedicating their onyx,
Anguish, at midnight, supports, a lamp-holder,
Many a twilight dream burnt by the Phoenix
That won't be gathered in some ashes' amphora
On a table, in the empty room: here is no ptyx,
Abolished bauble of sonorous uselessness,
(Since the Master's gone to draw tears from the Styx
With that sole object, vanity of Nothingness).
But near the casement wide to the north,
A gold is dying, in accord with the decor
Perhaps, those unicorns dashing fire at a nixie,
She who, naked and dead in the mirror, yet
In the oblivion enclosed by the frame, is fixed
As soon by scintillations as the septet.
(Note: The septet may indicate the constellation of Ursa Major in the north. )
Sonnet: 'Pour votre chere morte, son ami. . .
'
(For your dear departed wife, his friend) 2 November 1877
- 'Over the lost woods when dark winter lowers
You moan, O solitary captive of the threshold,
That this double tomb which our pride should hold's
Cluttered, alas, only with absent weight of flowers.
Unheard Midnight counts out his empty number,
Wakefulness urges you never to close an eye,
Before in the ancient armchair's embrace my
Shade is illuminated by the dying embers.
Who wishes to receive visitations often,
Mustn't load with too many flowers the stone
My finger raises with a dead power's boredom.
A soul trembling to sit by a hearth so bright,
To exist again, it's enough if I borrow from
Your lips the breath of my name you murmur all night. '
To The Sole Concern
To the sole task of voyaging
Beyond an India dark and splendid
- Goes time's messenger, this greeting,
Cape that your stern has doubled
As on some low yard plunging
Along with the vessel riding
Skimmed in constant frolicking
A bird bringing fresh tidings
That without the helm flickering
Shrieked in pure monotones
An utterly useless bearing
Night, despair, and precious stones
Reflected by its singing so
To the smile of pale Vasco.
All Summarised The Soul. . .
All summarised, the soul,
When slowly we breathe it out
In several rings of smoke
By other rings wiped out
Bears witness to some cigar
Burning skilfully while
The ash is separated far
From its bright kiss of fire
Should the choir of romantic art
Fly so towards your lips
Exclude from it if you start
The real because it's cheap
Meaning too precise is sure
To void your dreamy literature.
What Silk. . .
What silk of time's sweet balm
Where the Chimera tires himself
Is worth the coils and natural cloud
You tend before the mirror's calm?
The blanks of meditating flags
Stand high along our avenue:
But I've your naked tresses too
To bury there my contented eyes.
No! The mouth cannot be sure
Of tasting anything in its bite
Unless your princely lover cares
In that mighty brush of hair
To breathe out, like a diamond,
The cry of Glory stifled there.
