LINES WRITTEN ON THE FLY-LEAF OF AN EXECRATED BOOK
(Épigraphe pour un livre condamné)
Sober, simple, artless man,
In these pages do not look,
Melancholy lurks within,
Sad and saturnine the book.
Cast it from thee. If thou know'st
Not of that dark learnèd band,
Whom wise Satan rules as Dean;
Throw! Thou would'st not understand.
Yet, if unperturbed thou canst,
Standing on the heights above,
Plunge thy vision in the abyss
—Read in me and learn to love.
If thy soul hath suffered, friend,
And for Paradise thou thirst,
Ponder my devil-ridden song
And pity me ... or be accurst!
THE END OF THE DAY
(La Fin de la journée)
Beneath a wan and sickly light
Life, impudent and noisy, sways;
Most meaningless in all her ways.
She dances like a bedlamite,
Until the far horizon grows
Big with sweet night, at last! whose name
Appeases hunger, soothes the shame
And sorrow that the poet knows.
My very bones seem on the rack;
My spirit wails aloud; meseems
My heart is thronged with funeral dreams.
I will lie down and round me wrap
The cool, black curtains of the gloom
That night hath woven in her loom.
LITTLE POEMS IN PROSE
VENUS AND THE FOOL
How glorious the day! The great park swoons beneath the Sun's burning eye, as youth beneath the Lordship of Love.
Earth's ecstasy is all around, the waters are drifting into sleep. Silence reigns in nature's revel, as sound does in human joy. The waning light casts a glamour over the world. The sun-kissed flowers plume the day with colour, and fling incense to the winds. They desire to rival the painted sky.
Yet, amidst the rout, I see one sore afflicted thing. A motley fool, a willing clown who brings laughter to the lips of kings when weariness and remorse oppress them; a fool in a gaudy dress, coiffed in cap and bells, huddles at the foot of a huge Venus. His eyes are full of tears, and raised to the goddess they seem to say: