The poem describes a funeral pyre being built for lovers whose passion has ended. Their ashes will be gathered in an urn and buried under an oak tree, covered with violets and ferns. It expresses sadness at love that is lost.
The poem describes a funeral pyre being built for lovers whose passion has ended. Their ashes will be gathered in an urn and buried under an oak tree, covered with violets and ferns. It expresses sadness at love that is lost.
The poem describes a funeral pyre being built for lovers whose passion has ended. Their ashes will be gathered in an urn and buried under an oak tree, covered with violets and ferns. It expresses sadness at love that is lost.
The poem describes a funeral pyre being built for lovers whose passion has ended. Their ashes will be gathered in an urn and buried under an oak tree, covered with violets and ferns. It expresses sadness at love that is lost.
Come now and build for us a funeral pyre, And lay our emptied bodies on the fire, Pray for our souls, murmur your sad amens; And while the gold and scarlet flame ascends Let he who best can play upon the lyre, Pluck slow regretful notes of deep desire, Sing subtle songs of love that never ends. and when at last the embers growing cold Gather ye up our ashes in an urn Of porphyry, and seek a forest old There underneath some vast and mighty oak choose ye our grave, spread over us a cloak Of woven violets and filmy fern.
DISSONANCE
You've slipped from out your evening gown, you muse
Before the polished lookingglass, a hand Unclasping frail corsage, while you peruse Your blushing charms. Your wayward eyes demand Intrigue, as slowly you remove the clothes Which cling around your girlish loveliness. In silken stockings of the palest rose Your slender legs encased, twin gracefulness Beyond compare, while all your perfumed hair Comes tumbling down and glorybath of gold ; And thus you stand before me ivorybare Craving to yield in passion as of old. I take you in my arms yet am I sad, So many other loves have made you glad. FOLIES DE FEMMES
In scarlet tunic rare a concubine
With subtle limbs, and breasts laid bare For me to kiss. Soft eyes that sadly shine A nubile maiden slave, intensely fair, Strange frightened rose. A pagan priestess pale Wearing a clinging robe of silvergreen. In silken slashéd gold a houri frail With veiléd face, mere child of seventeen. But though my senses often are akin To wretched trafficking, my soul is gold And sails upon the winds, a harlequin Unstained by sin and fearless as of old. You are the lovely laughing columbine Who fills my heart with dazzling amber wine.
BAUDELAIRE
I think I understand you, Baudelaire,
With all your strangeness and perverted ways, You whose fierce hatred of dull working days Led you to seek your macabre visions there Where shrouded night came creeping to ensnare Your phantomfevered brain, with subtle maze Of decomposéd loves, remorse, dismays, And all the gnawing of a world's despair. Within my soul you've set your blackest flag And made my disillusioned heart your tomb ; My mind which once was young and virginal Is now a swamp, a spleenfilled pregnant womb Of things abominable, things androgynal, Flowers of Dissolution, Fleurs du Mal. GOLD AND GRAY
War was romantic in the days of old.
The knight rode forth to battle unafraid, Wearing the favour of some royal maid Who loved him for his courage lionbold. And thus he sought adventures manifold In joust and tourney midst fanfaronade Of trumpets, or else fought in a crusade Gainst infidels, his honour to uphold. But modern war is not at all the same. There are no plumes to catch my lady's eye. In dugouts deep or trenches lashed by rain, Where poison gas creeps in to suffocate, Where bullets slap against the parapet, And barbéd wire crucifies the slain.