Wandering Jews of Norway, tell me of snow;
old beloved exiles tell me of the sea.
Myself: No, no more of these pure drinks,
these water-flowers for glasses;
neither legends nor faces quench my thirst;
singer, your god-child is my thirst so mad,
a mouthless intimate hydra
which consumes and ravages.
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In the blue summer evenings, I will go along the paths,
Daydreaming I will feel the coolness on my feet.I will let the wind bathe my bare head.I will not speak, I will have no thoughts:But infinite love will mount in my soul;And I will go far, far off, like a gypsy,Through the country side-joyous as if I were with a woman.
Thus continually towards the dark azure,
Will function in your eveningThe Lilies, those pessaries of ectasy!In our own age sago,When Plants work for their living,The Lily will dring blue loathingsFrom you religious Proses!– Monsieur de Kerdrel’s fleur-de-lys,The Sonnet of eighteen-thirty,The Lily they bestow on the BardTogether with the pink and the amaranth!Lilies! lilies! None to be seen!Yet in your Verse, like…
We have found it again.
‘Tis the ocean goneFor a walk with the sun.Soul, you sentinel,Murmur and confess,Day is fiery hell,Night is nothingness.From the common urges,From the human highestFar thy path diverges:Following thou fliest…No expectancy,No orietur,Science patiently;Punishment is sure.From your blaze alone,Satin flames of force,Duty’s breath is blown;No one says : of course.We have found it again.What? Time without end.‘Tis…
I have kissed the summer dawn. Before the palaces, nothing moved. The water lay dead. Battalions of shadows still kept the forest road.
My first adventure, in a path already gleaming With a clear pale light, Was a flower who told me its name.I laughted at the blond Wasserfall That threw its hair across the pines: On the silvered summit, I came upon the goddess.Then one by one, I lifted her veils. In the long walk, waving my…
On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The lean, the devil’s paladinsThe skeletons of Saladins.Sir Beelzebub pulls by the scruffHis little black puppets who grin at the sky,And with a backhander in the head like a kick,Makes them dance, dance, to an old Carol-tune!And the puppets, shaken about, entwine their thin arms:Their breasts pierced with light, like black organ-pipesWhich once gentle ladies…
A breath opens operatic breaches
disperses the boundariesof hearths,– eclipses the windows.Along the vine, having rested my foot on a waterspout,I climbed down into this coach,its period indicated clearly enoughby the convex panes of glass,the bulging panels, the contorted sofas.Isolated hearse of my sleep,shepherd’s house of my insanity,the vehicle veers on the grassof the obliterated highway:and in the defect at…