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diff --git a/21211.txt b/21211.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a890487 --- /dev/null +++ b/21211.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1376 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Silverpoints, by John Gray + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Silverpoints + +Author: John Gray + +Release Date: April 24, 2007 [EBook #21211] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SILVERPOINTS *** + + + + +Produced by Ruth Hart ruthhart@twilightoracle.com + + + + + +Transcriber's note: In the original text all the verse titles and +dedications are in regular type, while all the stanzas are italicized. +I have not indicated these different styles in this online text. + + +SILVERPOINTS + +BY + +JOHN GRAY + +LONDON M.DCCC.XC.III +ELKIN MATHEWS AND +JOHN LANE. AT THE +SIGN OF THE BODLEY +HEAD IN VIGO STREET + +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + +. . . EN COMPOSANT DES ACROSTICHES INDOLENTS + P.V. + + + + +LES DEMOISELLES DE SAUVE + +TO S. A. S. ALICE, PRINCESSE DE MONACO + +Beautiful ladies through the orchard pass; +Bend under crutched-up branches, forked and low; +Trailing their samet palls o'er dew-drenched grass. + +Pale blossoms, looking on proud Jacqueline, +Blush to the colour of her finger tips, +And rosy knuckles, laced with yellow lace. + +High-crested Berthe discerns, with slant, clinched eyes, +Amid the leaves pink faces of the skies; +She locks her plaintive hands Sainte-Margot-wise. + +Ysabeau follows last, with languorous pace; +Presses, voluptuous, to her bursting lips. +With backward stoop, a bunch of eglantine. + +Courtly ladies through the orchard pass; +Bow low, as in lords' halls; and springtime grass +Tangles a snare to catch the tapering toe. + + + + +HEART'S DEMESNE + +TO PAUL VERLAINE + +Listen, bright lady, thy deep Pansie eyes +Made never answer when my eyes did pray, +Than with those quaintest looks of blank surprise. + +But my love longing has devised a way +To mock thy living image, from thy hair +To thy rose toes and keep thee by alway. + +My garden's face is oh! so maidly fair, +With limbs all tapering and with hues all fresh; +Thine are the beauties all that flourish there. + +Amaranth, fadeless, tells me of thy flesh. +Briar rose knows thy cheek, the Pink thy pout. +Bunched kisses dangle from the Woodbine mesh. + +I love to loll, when Daisy stars peep out, +And hear the music of my garden dell, +Hollyhock's laughter and the Sunflowers shout. + +And many whisper things I dare not tell. + + + + +SONG OF THE SEEDLING + +TO ARTHUR SEWELL BUTT + +Tell, little seedling, murmuring germ, +Why are you joyful? What do you sing? +Have you no fear of that crawling thing, +Him that has so many legs? and the worm? + +Rain drops patter above my head-- + Drip, drip, drip. +To moisten the mould where my roots are fed-- + Sip, sip, sip. +No thought have I of the legged thing. + Of the worm no fear, + When the goal is so near; +Every moment my life has run, +The livelong day I've not ceased to sing: +I must reach the sun, the sun. + + + + +LADY EVELYN + +I know no Name too sweet to tell of her, +For Love's sweet Sake and Domination. +She hath me all; her Spell hath Power to stir +My Heart to every Lust, and spur me on. +Love saith: 'tis even thus; her Will no Thrall, +But Touchstone of thy Worth in Love's Armure; +They only conquer in Love's Lists that fall, +And Wounds renewed for Wounds are captain Cure. +He doubly is inslaved that gilts his Chain, +Saith Reason, chaffering for his Empire gone, +Bestir, and root the Canker that hath ta'en +Thy Breast for Bed, and feeds thy Heart upon. + +I this: Sweet Love, an sweet an sour thou be, +I know no Name too sweet to tell of thee. + + + + +COMPLAINT + +TO FELIX FENEON + +Men, women, call thee so or so; + I do not know. + Thou hast no name +For me, but in my heart aflame + +Burns tireless, neath a silver vine. + And round entwine + Its purple girth +All things of fragrance and of worth. + +Thou shout! thou burst of light! thou throb + Of pain! thou sob! + Thou like a bar +Of some sonata, heard from far + +Through blue-hue'd veils! When in these wise, + To my soul's eyes, + Thy shape appears, +My aching hands are full of tears. + + + + +A HALTING SONNET + +TO MISS ELLEN TERRY ON HER BIRTHDAY + +It is not meet for one like me to praise +A lady, princess, goddess, artist such; +For great ones crane their foreheads to her touch, +To change their splendours into crowns of bays. +But poets never rhyme as they are bid; +Nor never see their ft goal; but aspire, +With straining eyes, to some far silvern spire; +Flowers among, sing to the gods cloud-hid. +One of these, onetime, opened velvet eyes +Upon the world--the years recall the day; +Those lights still shine, conscious of power alway, +But flattering men with feigned looks of surprise. + + The couplet is so great that, where thou art, + --Thou being a poem--it is past my art. + + + + +WINGS IN THE DARK + +TO ROBERT HARBOROUGH SHERARD + +Forth into the warm darkness faring wide-- +More silent momently the silent quay-- +Towards where the ranks of boats rock to the tide, +Muffling their plaintive gurgling jealously. + +With gentle nodding of her gracious snout, +One greets her master till he step aboard; +She flaps her wings, impatient to get out; +She runs to plunder, straining every cord, + +Full-winged and stealthy like a bird of prey, +All tense the muscles of her seemly flanks; +She, the coy creature that the idle day +Sees idly riding in the idle ranks. + +Backward and forth, over the chosen ground, +Like a young horse, she drags the heavy trawl, +Tireless; or speeds her rapturous course unbound, +And passing fishers through the darkness call + +Deep greeting, in the jargon of the sea. +Haul upon haul, flounders and soles and dabs, +And phosphorescent animalcule, +Sand, seadrift, weeds, thousands of worthless crabs. + +Low on the mud the darkling fishes grope. +Cautious to stir, staring with jewel eyes; +Dogs of the sea, the savage congers mope, +Winding their sulky march Meander-wise. + +Suddenly all is light and life and flight, +Upon the sandy bottom, agate strewn. +The fishers mumble, waiting till the night +Urge on the clouds, and cover up the moon. + + + + +THE BARBER + +I + +I dreamed I was a barber; and there went +Beneath my hand, oh! manes extravagant. +Beneath my trembling fingers, many a mask +Of many a pleasant girl. It was my task +To gild their hair, carefully, strand by strand; +To paint their eyebrows with a timid hand; +To draw a bodkin, from a vase of kohl, +Through the closed lashes; pencils from a bowl +Of sepia to paint them underneath; +To blow upon their eyes with a soft breath. +They lay them back and watched the leaping bands. + +II + +The dream grew vague. I moulded with my hands +The mobile breasts, the valley; and the waist +I touched; and pigments reverently placed +Upon their thighs in sapient spots and stains, +Beryls and crysolites and diaphanes, +And gems whose hot harsh names are never said. +I was a masseur; and my fingers bled +With wonder as I touched their awful limbs. + +III + +Suddenly, in the marble trough, there seems +O, last of my pale, mistresses, Sweetness! +A twylipped scarlet pansie. My caress +Tinges thy steelgray eyes to violet. +Adown thy body skips the pit-a-pat +Of treatment once heard in a hospital +For plagues that fascinate, but half appal. + +IV + +So, at the sound, the blood of me stood cold. +Thy chaste hair ripened into sullen gold. +The throat, the shoulders, swelled and were uncouth. +The breasts rose up and offered each a mouth. +And on the belly pallid blushes crept, +That maddened me, until I laughed and wept. + + + + +MISHKA + +TO HENRI TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS + +Mishka is poet among the beasts. +When roots are rotten, and rivers weep. +The bear is at play in the land of sleep. +Though his head be heavy between his fists. +The bear is poet among the beasts. + +THE DREAM: + +Wide and large are the monster's eyes, +Nought saying, save one word alone: +Mishka! Mishka, as turned to stone, +Hears no word else, nor in anywise +Can see aught save the monster's eyes. + +Honey is under the monster's lips; +And Mishka follows into her lair, +dragged in the net of her yellow hair, +Knowing all things when honey drips +On his tongue like rain, the song of the hips + +Of the honey-child, and of each twin mound. +Mishka! there screamed a far bird-note, +Deep in the sky, when round his throat +The triple coil of her hair she wound. +And stroked his limbs with a humming sound. + +Mishka is white like a hunter's son +Tor he knows no more of the ancient south +When the honey-child's lips are on his mouth, +When all her kisses are joined in one, +And his body is bathed in grass and sun. + +The shadows lie mauven beneath the trees, +And purple stains, where the finches pass, +Leap in the stalks of the deep, rank grass. +Flutter of-wing, and the buzz of bees, +Deepen the silence, and sweeten ease. + +The honey-child is an olive tree, +The voice of birds and the voice of flowers, +Each of them all and all the hours, +The honey-child is a winged bee, +Her touch is a perfume, a melody. + + + + +SUMMER PAST + +TO OSCAR WILDE + +There was the summer. There + Warm hours of leaf-lipped song, + And dripping amber sweat. + O sweet to see +The great trees condescend to cast a pearl +Down to the myrtles; and the proud leaves curl + In ecstasy. + + Fruit of a quest, despair. + Smart of a sullen wrong. + Where may they hide them yet? + One hour, yet one, +To find the mossgod lurking in his nest, +To see the naiads' floating hair, caressed + By fragrant sun. + + Beams. Softly lulled the eves + The song-tired birds to sleep, + That other things might tell + Their secrecies. +The beetle humming neath the fallen leaves. +Deep in what hollow do the stern gods keep +Their bitter silence? By what listening well + Where holy trees, + +Song-set, unfurl eternally the sheen + Of restless green? + + + + +THE VINES + +TO ANDRE CHEVRILLON + +"Have you seen the listening snake?" +bramble clutches for his bride, +Lately she was by his side, +Woodbine, with her gummy hands. + +In the ground the mottled snake +Listens for the dawn of day; +Listens, listening death away, +Till the day burst winter's bands. + +Painted ivy is asleep, +Stretched upon the bank, all torn, +Sinewy though she be; love-lorn +Convolvuluses cease to creep. + +Bramble clutches for his bride, +Woodbine, with her gummy hands, +All his horny claws expands; +She has withered in his grasp. + +"Till the day dawn, till the tide +Of the winter's afternoon." +"Who tells dawning?"--"Listen, soon." +Half born tendrils, grasping, gasp. + + + + +Je pleure dans les coins; je n'ai plus gout a rien; +Oh! j'ai tant pleure, Dimanche, en mon paroissien! + +JULES LAFORGUE + +Did we not, Darling, you and I, +Walk on the earth like other men? +Did we not walk and wonder why +They spat upon us so. And then + +We lay us down among fresh earthy +Sweet flowers breaking overhead, +Sore needed rest for our frail girth, +For our frail hearts; a well-sought bed. + +So Spring came, and spread daffodils; +Summer, and fluffy bees sang on; +The fluffy bee knows us, and fills +His house with sweet to think upon. + +Deep in the dear dust, Dear, we dream, +Our melancholy is a thing +At last our own; and none esteem +How our black lips are blackening. + +And none note how our poor eyes fall, +Nor how our cheeks are sunk and sere . . . +Dear, when you waken, will you call? . . . +Alas! we are not very near. + + + + +Ainsi, elle viendrait a moi! les yeux bien fous! +Et elle me suivrait avec cet air partout! + +TO E. M. G. + +Lean back, and press the pillow deep, +Heart's dear demesne, dear Daintiness; +Close your tired eyes, but not to sleep . . . +How very pale your pallor is! + +You smile, your cheek's voluptuous line +Melts in your dimpled saucy cave. +Your hairbraids seem a wilful vine, +Scorning to imitate a wave. + +Your voice is tenebrous, as if +An angel mocked a blackbird's pipe. +You are my magic orchard feoff, +Where bud and fruit are always ripe. + +O apple garden! all the days +Are fain to crown the darling year, +Ephemeral bells and garland bays, +Shy blade and lusty, bursting ear. + +In every kiss I call you mine, +Tell me, my dear, how pure, how brave +Our child will be! what velvet eyne, +What bonny hair our child will have! + + + + +CROCUSES IN GRASS + +TO CHARLES HAZELWOOD SHANNON + +Purple and white the crocus flowers, + And yellow, spread upon + The sober lawn; the hours +Are not more idle in the sun. + +Perhaps one droops a prettier head, + And one would say: Sweet Queen, + Your lips are white and red, +And round you lies the grass most green. + +And she, perhaps, for whom is fain + The other, will not heed; + Or, that he may complain, +Babbles, for dalliaunce, with a weed. + +And he dissimulates despair, + And anger, and suprise; + The while white daisies stare +--And stir not--with their yellow eyes. + + + + +POEM + +TO ARTHUR EDMONDS + +Geranium, houseleek, laid in oblong beds +On the trim grass. The daisies' leprous stain +Is fresh. Each night the daisies burst again, +Though every day the gardener crops their heads. + +A wistful child, in foul unwholesome shreds, +Recalls some legend of a daisy chain +That makes a pretty necklace. She would fain +Make one, and wear it, if she had some threads. + +Sun, leprous flowers, foul child. The asphalt burns. +The garrulous sparrows perch on metal Burns. +Sing! Sing! they say, and flutter with their wings. +He does not sing, he only wonders why +He is sitting there. The sparrows sing. And I +Yield to the strait allure of simple things. + + + + +ON A PICTURE + +TO PIERRE LOUYS + +Not pale, as one in sleep or holier death, +Nor illcontent the lady seems, nor loth +To lie in shadow of shrill river growth, +So steadfast are the river's arms beneath. + +Pale petals follow her in very faith, +Unmixed with pleasure or regret, and both +Her maidly hands look up, in noble sloth +To take the blossoms of her scattered wreath. + +No weakest ripple lives to kiss her throat. +Nor dies in meshes of untangled hair; +No movement stirs the floor of river moss. + +Until some furtive glimmer gleam across +Voluptuous mouth, where even teeth are bare, +And gild the broidery of her petticoat. . . . + + + + +PARSIFAL IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH +OF PAUL VERLAINE + +Conquered the flower-maidens, and the wide embrace +Of their round proffered arms, that tempt the virgin boy; +Conquered the trickling of their babbling tongues; the coy +Back glances, and the mobile breasts of subtle grace; + +Conquered the Woman Beautiful, the fatal charm +Of her hot breast, the music of her babbling tongue; +Conquered the gate of Hell, into the gate the young +Man passes, with the heavy trophy at his arm, + +The holy Javelin that pierced the Heart of God. +He heals the dying king, he sits upon the throne, +King, and high priest of that great gift, the living Blood. + +In robe of gold the youth adores the glorious Sign +Of the green goblet, worships the mysterious Wine. +And oh! the chime of children's voices in the dome. + + + + +A CRUCIFIX + +TO ERNEST DOWSON + +A gothic church. At one end of an aisle, +Against a wall where mystic sunbeams smile +Through painted windows, orange, blue, and gold, +The Christ's unutterable charm behold. +Upon the cross, adorned with gold and green, +Long fluted golden tongues of sombre sheen, +Like four flames joined in one, around the head +And by the outstretched arms, their glory spread. +The statue is of wood; of natural size +Tinted; one almost sees before one's eyes +The last convulsion of the lingering breath. +"Behold the man!" Robust and frail. Beneath +That breast indeed might throb the Sacred Heart. +And from the lips, so holily dispart, +The dying murmur breathes "Forgive! Forgive!" +O wide-stretched arms! "I perish, let them live." +Under the torture of the thorny crown, +The loving pallor of the brow looks down +On human blindness, on the toiler's woes; +The while, to overturn Despair's repose, +And urge to Hope and Love, as Faith demands, +Bleed, bleed the feet, the broken side, the hands. +A poet, painter, Christian,--it was a friend +Of mine--his attributes most fitly blend-- +Who saw this marvel, made an exquisite +Copy; and, knowing how I worshipped it, +Forgot it, in my room, by accident. +I write these verses in acknowledgment. + + + + +LE CHEVALIER MALHEUR + +Grim visor'd cavalier! + Rides silently MISCHANCE. +Stabbed is my dying heart + of his unpitying lance. +My poor hearts blood leaps forth, + a single crimson jet. +The hot sun licks it up + where petals pale are wet. +Deep shadow seals my sight, + one shriek my lips has fed. +With a wrung, sullen shudder + my poor heart is dead. +The cavalier dismounts; + and, kneeling on the ground, +His finger iron-mailed + he thrusts into the wound. +Suddenly, at the freezing touch, + the iron smart, +At once within me bursts + a new, a noble heart. +Suddenly, as the steel + into the wound is pressed, +A heart all beautiful + and young throbs in my breast. +Trembling, incredulous + I sat; but ill at ease, +As one who, in a holy trance, + strange visions sees. +While the good cavalier, + remounted on his horse, +Left me a parting nod + as he retook his course, +And shouted to me + (still I hear his cries): +"Once only can the miracle + avail.--Be wise!" + + + + +SPLEEN + +The roses every one were red, +And all the ivy leaves were black. + +Sweet, do not even stir your head, +Or all of my despairs come back. + +The sky is too blue, too delicate: +Too soft the air, too green the sea. + +I fear---how long had I to wait!-- +That you will tear yourself from me. + +The shining box-leaves weary me, +The varnished holly's glistening, + +The stretch of infinite country; +So, saving you, does everything. + + + + +CLAIR DE LUNE + +How like a well-kept garden is your soul, +With bergomask and solemn minuet! +Playing upon the lute! The dancers seem +But sad, beneath their strange habiliments. +While, in the minor key, their songs extol +The victor Love, and life's sweet blandishments, +Their looks belie the burden of their lays, +The songs that mingle with the still moon-beams. +So strange, so beautiful, the pallid rays; +Making the birds among the branches dream, +And sob with ecstasy the slender jets, + +The fountains tall that leap upon the lawns +Amid the garden gods, the marble fauns. + + + + +MON DIEU M'A DIT: . . . + +God has spoken: Love me, + son, thou must; Oh see +My broken side; my heart, + its rays refulgent shine; +My feet, insulted, stabbed, + that Mary bathes with brine +Of bitter tears my sad arms, + helpless, son, for thee; + +With thy sins heavy; and my hands; + thou seest the rod; +Thou seest the nails, the sponge, + the gall; and all my pain +Must teach thee love, amidst a world + where flesh doth reign, +My flesh alone, my blood, + my voice, the voice of God, + +Say, have I not loved thee, + loved thee to death, +O brother in my Father, + in the Spirit son? +Say, as the word is written, + is my work not done? +Thy deepest woe have I not sobbed + with struggling breath? +Has not thy sweat of anguished nights + from all my pores in pain +Of blood dripped, piteous friend, + who seekest me in vain? + + + + +GREEN + +Leaves and branches, flowers and fruits are here; +And here my heart, which throbs alone for thee. +Ah! do not wound my heart with those two dear +White hands, but take the poor gift tenderly. + +I come, all covered with the dews of night +The morning breeze has pearled upon my face. +Let my fatigue, at thy feet, in thy sight, +Dream through the moments of its sweet solace. + +With thy late kisses ringing, let my head +Roll in blest indolence on thy young breast; +To lull the tempest thy caresses bred, +And soothe my senses with a little rest. + + + + +FLEURS. IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH +OF STEPHANE MALLARME + +The tawny iris--oh! the slim-necked swan; +And, sign of exiled souls, the bay divine; +Ruddy as seraph's heel its fleckless sheen, +Blushing the brightness of a trampled dawn. + +The hyacinth; the myrtle's sweet alarm; +Like to a woman's flesh, the cruel rose, +Blossom'd Herodiade of the garden close, +Fed with ferocious dew of blooddrops warm. + +Thou mad'st the lilies' pallor, nigh to swoon. +Which, rolling billows of deep sighs upon, +Through the blue incense of horizons wan, +Creeps dreamily towards the weeping moon. + +Praise in the censers, praise upon the gong, +Madone! from the garden of our woes: +On eves celestial throb the echo long! +Ecstatic visions! radiance of haloes! + +Mother creatrice! in thy strong, just womb, +Challices nodding the not distant strife; +Great honey'd blossoms, a balsamic tomb +For weary poets blanched with starless life. + + + + +CHARLEVILLE. IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH +OF ARTHUR RIMBAUD + +TO FRANK HARRIS + +The square, with gravel paths and shabby lawns. +Correct, the trees and flowers repress their yawns. +The tradesman brings his favourite conceit, +To air it, while he stifles with the heat. + +In the kiosk, the military band. +The shakos nod the time of the quadrilles. +The flaunting dandy strolls about the stand. +The notary, half unconscious of his seals. + +On the green seats, small groups of grocermen, +Absorbed, their sticks scooping a little hole +Upon the path, talk market prices; then +Take up a cue: I think, upon the whole. . . . + +The loutish roughs are larking on the grass. +The sentimental trooper, with a rose +Between his teeth, seeing a baby, grows +More tender, with an eye upon the nurse. + +Unbuttoned, like a student, I follow +A couple of girls along the chesnut row. +They know I am following, for they turn and laugh, +Half impudent, half shy, inviting chaff. + +I do not say a word. I only stare +At their round, fluffy necks. I follow where +The shoulders drop; I struggle to define +The subtle torso's hesitating line. + +Only my rustling tread, deliberate, slow; +The rippled silence from the still leaves drips. +They think I am an idiot, they speak low; +-- I feel faint kisses creeping on my lips. + + + + +SENSATION + +I walk the alleys trampled through the wheat, +Through whole blue summer eves, on velvet grass. +Dreaming, I feel the dampness at my feet; +The breezes bathe my naked head and pass. + +I do not think a single thought, nor say +A word; but in my soul the mists upcurl +Of infinite love. I will go far away +With nature, happily, as with a girl. + + + + +A UNE MADONE. IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH +OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE + +Madone! my lady, I will build for thee +A grotto altar of my misery. +Deep will I scoop, where darkest lies my heart, +Far from the world's cupidity apart, + +A niche, with mercy stained, and streaked with gold, +Where none thy statue's wonder may behold. + +Then, for thy head, I will fashion a tiar, +A filigree of verse, with many a star + +Of crystal rhyme its heavy folds upon. +And jealousy, O mortal! my Madone, + +Shall cut for thee a gown, of dreadful guise, +Which like a portcullis, shall veil thy thighs; + +Rude, heavy curtain, faced with bitter fears, +Broidered, in place of pearls, with all my tears. + +And, of my worship, shoes will I design; +Two satin shoes, to case thy feet divine, + +Which, while their precious freight they softly hold, +Shall guard the imprint in a faithful mould. + +If I should fail to forge a silver moon, +I with my art, for thee to tread upon, + +Then will I place the writhing beast that hangs +Upon my heart, and tears it with his fangs, + +Where thou may'st crush his head, and smile supreme, +O majesty! all potent to redeem. + +And all my thoughts, like candles, shalt thou see +before thine altar spread, Star of the Sea! + +Starring thine azure roof with points of fire. +With nought hut thee to cherish and admire, + +So shall my soul in plaintive fumes arise +Of incense ever to thy pitying eyes. + + +Last, that indeed a Mary thou may'st be, +And that my love be mixed with cruelty-- + +O foul voluptuousness! when I have made +Of every deadly sin a deadlier blade, + +Torturer filled with pain will I draw near +The target of thy breast, and, sick with fear, + +Deliberately plant them all where throbs +Thy bleeding heart, and stifling with its sobs. + + + + +FEMMES DAMNEES + +Like moody beasts they lie along the sands;, +Look where the sky against the sea-rim clings: +Foot stretches out to foot, and groping hands +Have languors soft and bitter shudderings. + +Some, smitten hearts with the long secrecies, +On velvet moss, deep in their bowers' ease, +Prattling the love of timid infancies, +Are tearing the green bark from the young trees. + +Others, like sisters, slowly walk and grave; +By rocks that swarm with ghostly legions, +Where Anthony saw surging on the waves +The purple breasts of his temptations, + +Some, by the light of crumbling, resinous gums, +In the still hollows of old pagan dens, +Call thee in aid to their deliriums +O Bacchus! cajoler of ancient pains. + +And those whose breasts for scapulars are fain +Nurse under their long robes the cruel thong. +These, in dim woods, where huddling shadows throng. +Mix with the foam of pleasure tears of pain. + + + + +LE VOYAGE A CYTHERE + +Bird-like, my heart was glad to soar and vault; +Fluttering among the cordages; and on +The vessel flew, under an empty vault: +An angel drunken of a radiant sun. + +Tell me, what is that gray, that sombre isle? +'Tis Cythera, famed on many a poet string; +A name that has not lacked the slavering smile; +But now, you see, it is not much to sing. + +Isle of soft whispers, tremours of the heart! +The splendid phantom of thy rude goddess +Floats on thy seas like breath of spikenard, +Charging men's souls with love and lusciousness. + +Sweet isle of myrtles, once of open blooms: +Now only of lean lands most lean: it seems +A flinty desert bitter with shrill screams: +But one strange object on its horror looms. + +Not a fair temple, foiled with coppiced trees, +Where the young priestess, mistress of the flowers, +Goes opening her gown to the cool breeze, +To still the fire, the torment that devours. + +But as along the shore we skirted, near +Enough to scare the birds with our white sails, +We saw a three-limbed gibbet rising sheer. +Detached against the sky in spare details. + +Perched on their pasturage, ferocious fowl +Riddled with rage a more than putrid roast; +Each of them stabbing, like a tool, his foul +Beak in the oozing members of his host. + +Below, a troop of jealous quadrupeds, +Looking aloft with eye and steadfast snout; +A larger beast above the others' heads, +A hangman with his porters round about. + +The eyes, two caves; and from the rotten paunch, +Its freight, too heavy, streamed along the haunch, +Hang for these harpies' hideous delight, +Poor rag of flesh, torn of thy sex and sight! + +Cythera's child, child of so sweet a sky! +Silent thou bearest insult--as we must-- +In expiation of what faults deny +Thee even a shallow shelter in the dust. + +Ludicrous sufferer! thy woes are mine. +There came, at seeing of thy dangling limbs, +Up to my lips, like vomiting, the streams +Of ancient miseries, of gall and brine. + +Before thee, brother in my memory fresh! +I felt the mangling of the appetites +Of the black panthers, of the savage kites, +That were so fain to rend and pick my flesh. + +The sea was sleeping. Blue and beautiful +The sky. Henceforth I saw but murk and blood, +Alas! and as it had been in a shroud, +My heart lay buried in that parable, + +All thine isle showed me, Venus! was upthrust, +A symbol calvary where my image hung. +Give me, Lord God, to look upon that dung, +My body and my heart, without disgust. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Silverpoints, by John Gray + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SILVERPOINTS *** + +***** This file should be named 21211.txt or 21211.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/2/1/21211/ + +Produced by Ruth Hart ruthhart@twilightoracle.com + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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