And don't go
choosing
your words
Without some confusion of vision:
Nothing's dearer than shadowy verse
Where precision weds indecision.
Without some confusion of vision:
Nothing's dearer than shadowy verse
Where precision weds indecision.
19th Century French Poetry
A Poor Young Shepherd
I'm afraid of a kiss
Like the kiss of a bee.
I suffer like this
And wake endlessly.
I'm afraid of a kiss!
Yet I love Kate
And her sweet gaze.
She's delicate
With a long pale face.
Oh! How I love Kate!
It's Saint Valentine's Day!
I must, I don't dare
Tomorrow, they say. . .
It's a dreadful affair
Is Saint Valentine's Day!
She's promised to me,
Fortuitously!
But the difficulty
For a lover, poor he,
With his darling to be!
Poetic Art
For Charles Morice
Music above everything,
The Imbalanced preferred
Vaguer more soluble in air
Nothing weighty, fixed therein.
And don't go choosing your words
Without some confusion of vision:
Nothing's dearer than shadowy verse
Where precision weds indecision.
It's beautiful eyes hidden by veils,
It's broad day quivering at noon,
It's the blue disorder of clear stars
In an autumn, cool, with no moon!
For we always desire Nuance,
Not Colour, nuance evermore!
Oh, nuance alone can wed
Dream with dream, and flute to horn!
From murderous Epigrams flee,
Cruel Wit and Laughter impure
That brings tears to the high Azure,
And all that base garlic cuisine!
Take eloquence, wring its neck!
You'd do well, while you're in flow,
To make Rhyme a fraction wiser.
If we don't watch out, where will it go?
Oh who'll tell of the wrongs of Rhyme?
What mad Negro, or tone-deaf child,
Created this penny jewel, this crime,
That rings hollow, false under the file?
Music once more and forever!
Let your line be a thing so light,
It feels like a soul that soars in flight
To new skies and fresh lovers.
Let your line be the finest adventure
Afloat on the tense dawn wind
That goes wakening thyme and mint. . .
All the rest - is literature.
