Read Ebook: Silverpoints by Gray John

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 87 lines and 5537 words, and 2 pages

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.

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 : "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.

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 MALLARM?

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.

? 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.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet