What is this sudden cradle song
That gradually lulls my poor being?
That gradually lulls my poor being?
19th Century French Poetry
Do you know it, yes! For me, for years, here,
Forever, your dazzling smile prolongs
The one rose with its perfect summer gone
Into times past, yet then on into the future.
My heart that sometimes at night tries to know itself,
Or with which last word to name you the most tender
Exults in that which merely whispered sister
Were it not, such short tresses so great a treasure,
That you teach me quite another sweetness,
Soft through the kiss murmured only in your hair.
Note: Dated 1895. The French text reads 'Mary', this being one of a series of poems written for Mery Laurent, a friend also of Manet and others.
Sonnet
(Mery, sans trop d'aurore. . . )
Mery,
Without dawn too grossly now inflaming
The rose, that splendid, natural and weary
Sheds even her heavy veil of perfumes to hear
Underneath the flesh the diamond weeping,
Yes, without those dewy crises! And gently,
Unbroken when the sky fills with storm,
Jealous to add who knows what spaces
To simple day the day so true in feeling,
Does it not seem, Mery, that each year,
Where spontaneous grace relights your brow,
Suffices, given so much wonder and for me,
Like a lone fan with which a room's surprised,
To refresh with as little pain as is needed here
All our inborn and unvarying friendship.
Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)
Paul Verlaine
'Paul Verlaine'
Library of the World's best Literature, Ancient and Modern (p248, 1896) Internet Book Archive Images
The piano kissed. . .
Joyous notes, a sounding harpsichord's intrusion.
Petrus Borel
The piano kissed by a delicate hand
Gleams distantly in rose-grey evening
While with a wingtips' weightless sound
A fine old tune, so fragile, charming
Roams discreetly, almost trembling,
Through the chamber She's long perfumed.
What is this sudden cradle song
That gradually lulls my poor being?
What do you want of me, playful one?
What do you wish, slight vague refrain
Drifting now, dying, towards the window
Opening a little on a patch of garden?
In the Endless
In the endless ennui
Of this empty land,
The blurred snow
Gleams like sand.
The sky is of copper
Without true light
As if the moon there
Had lived and died.
The grey crowns
Of nearby trees
Float like clouds
On the misty breeze.
The sky is of copper
Without true light
As if the moon there
Had lived and died.
Wheezing crow
And you, lean wolves,
In these sharp gusts
What will you do?
In the endless ennui
Of this empty land,
The blurred snow
Gleams like sand.
Parsifal
Parsifal has conquered the girls, their sweet
Chatter, amusing lust - and his inclination,
A virgin boy's, towards the Flesh, tempted
To love the little tits and gentle babble;
He's conquered lovely Woman, of subtle
Heart, showing her cool arms, provoking breast;
He's conquered Hell, returned to his tent,
With a weighty trophy on his boyish arm.
With the lance that pierced the sacred Side!
He's cured the king, here he's king, abides,
And priest of the quintessential holy Treasure.
Worships in golden robes, a symbol, glory's home,
Vessel where the true Blood shines, the pure,
- And, O those children's voices singing in the dome!
Note: The last line is quoted by Eliot, in French, in The Wasteland (with reference to the Fisher King) as is the second line of De Nerval's El Desdichado.
The sky's above the roof. .
