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Young Adventure | 上传时间:2007-07-11 / 点击:


 I.
       
        Go away!
       
           Go away; I will not confess to you!
       
        His black biretta clings like a hangman's cap; under his twitching fingers
          the beads shiver and click,
        As he mumbles in his corner, the shadow deepens upon him;
        I will not confess! . . .
       
        Is he there or is it intenser shadow?
        Dark huddled coilings from the obscene depths,
        Black, formless shadow,
        Shadow.
        Doors creak; from secret parts of the chateau come the scuffle and worry
          of rats.
       
        Orange light drips from the guttering candles,
        Eddying over the vast embroideries of the bed
        Stirring the monstrous tapestries,
        Retreating before the sable impending gloom of the canopy
        With a swift thrust and sparkle of gold,
        Lipping my hands,
        Then
        Rippling back abashed before the ominous silences
        Like the swift turns and starts of an overpowered fencer
        Who sees before him Horror
        Behind him darkness,
        Shadow.
       
        The clock jars and strikes, a thin, sudden note like the sob of a child.
        Clock, buhl clock that ticked out the tortuous hours of my birth,
        Clock, evil, wizened dwarf of a clock, how many years of agony
          have you relentlessly measured,
        Yardstick of my stifling shroud?
       
        I am Aumaury de Montreuil; once quick, soon to be eaten of worms.
        You hear, Father?  Hsh, he is asleep in the night's cloak.
       
        Over me too steals sleep.
        Sleep like a white mist on the rotting paintings of cupids and gods
          on the ceiling;
        Sleep on the carven shields and knots at the foot of the bed,
        Oozing, blurring outlines, obliterating colors,
        Death.
       
        Father, Father, I must not sleep!
        It does not hear -- that shadow crouched in the corner . . .
        Is it a shadow?
        One might think so indeed, save for the calm face, yellow as wax,
          that lifts like the face of a drowned man from the choking darkness.
       
       
          II.
       
        Out of the drowsy fog my body creeps back to me.
        It is the white time before dawn.
        Moonlight, watery, pellucid, lifeless, ripples over the world.
        The grass beneath it is gray; the stars pale in the sky.
        The night dew has fallen;
        An infinity of little drops, crystals from which all light has been taken,
        Glint on the sighing branches.
        All is purity, without color, without stir, without passion.
       
        Suddenly a peacock screams.
       
        My heart shocks and stops;
        Sweat, cold corpse-sweat
        Covers my rigid body.
        My hair stands on end.  I cannot stir.  I cannot speak.
        It is terror, terror that is walking the pale sick gardens
        And the eyeless face no man may see and live!
        Ah-h-h-h-h!
        Father, Father, wake! wake and save me!
        In his corner all is shadow.
       
        Dead things creep from the ground.
        It is so long ago that she died, so long ago!
        Dust crushes her, earth holds her, mold grips her.
        Fiends, do you not know that she is dead? . . .
        "Let us dance the pavon!" she said; the waxlights glittered like swords
          on the polished floor.
        Twinkling on jewelled snuffboxes, beaming savagely from the crass gold
          of candelabra,
        From the white shoulders of girls and the white powdered wigs of men . . .
        All life was that dance.
        The mocking, resistless current,
        The beauty, the passion, the perilous madness --
        As she took my hand, released it and spread her dresses like petals,
        Turning, swaying in beauty,
        A lily, bowed by the rain, --
        Moonlight she was, and her body of moonlight and foam,
        And her eyes stars.
        Oh the dance has a pattern!
        But the clear grace of her thrilled through the notes of the viols,
        Tremulous, pleading, escaping, immortal, untamed,
        And, as we ended,
        She blew me a kiss from her hand like a drifting white blossom --
        And the starshine was gone; and she fled like a bird up the stair.
       
        Underneath the window a peacock screams,
        And claws click, scrape
        Like little lacquered boots on the rough stone.
       
        Oh the long fantasy of the kiss; the ceaseless hunger, ceaselessly,
          divinely appeased!
        The aching presence of the beloved's beauty!
        The wisdom, the incense, the brightness!
       
        Once more on the ice-bright floor they danced the pavon
        But I turned to the garden and her from the lighted candles.
        Softly I trod the lush grass between the black hedges of box.
        Softly, for I should take her unawares and catch her arms,
        And embrace her, dear and startled.
       
        By the arbor all the moonlight flowed in silver
        And her head was on his breast.
        She did not scream or shudder
        When my sword was where her head had lain
        In the quiet moonlight;
        But turned to me with one pale hand uplifted,
        All her satins fiery with the starshine,
        Nacreous, shimmering, weeping, iridescent,
        Like the quivering plumage of a peacock . . .
        Then her head drooped and I gripped her hair,
        Oh soft, scented cloud across my fingers! --
        Bending her white neck back. . . .
       
        Blood writhed on my hands; I trod in blood. . . .
        Stupidly agaze
        At that crumpled heap of silk and moonlight,
        Where like twitching pinions, an arm twisted,
        Palely, and was still
        As the face of chalk.
       
        The buhl clock strikes.
        Thirty years.  Christ, thirty years!
        Agony.  Agony.
       
        Something stirs in the window,
        Shattering the moonlight.
        White wings fan.
        Father, Father!
       
        All its plumage fiery with the starshine,
        Nacreous, shimmering, weeping, iridescent,
        It drifts across the floor and mounts the bed,
        To the tap of little satin shoes.
        Gazing with infernal eyes.
        Its quick beak thrusting, rending, devil's crimson . . .
        Screams, great tortured screams shake the dark canopy.
        The light flickers, the shadow in the corner stirs;
        The wax face lifts; the eyes open.
       
        A thin trickle of blood worms darkly against the vast red coverlet
          and spreads to a pool on the floor.
       
       
       
       
        Colors
       
        (For D. M. C.)
       
       
       
        The little man with the vague beard and guise
        Pulled at the wicket.  "Come inside!" he said,
        "I'll show you all we've got now -- it was size
        You wanted? -- oh, dry colors!  Well" -- he led
        To a dim alley lined with musty bins,
        And pulled one fiercely.  Violent and bold
        A sudden tempest of mad, shrieking sins
        Scarlet screamed out above the battered gold
        Of tins and picture-frames.  I held my breath.
        He tugged another hard -- and sapphire skies
        Spread in vast quietude, serene as death,
        O'er waves like crackled turquoise -- and my eyes
        Burnt with the blinding brilliance of calm sea!
        "We're selling that lot there out cheap!" said he.
       
       
       
       
        A Minor Poet
       
       
       
        I am a shell.  From me you shall not hear
        The splendid tramplings of insistent drums,
        The orbed gold of the viol's voice that comes,
        Heavy with radiance, languorous and clear.
        Yet, if you hold me close against the ear,
        A dim, far whisper rises clamorously,
        The thunderous beat and passion of the sea,
        The slow surge of the tides that drown the mere.
       
        Others with subtle hands may pluck the strings,
        Making even Love in music audible,
        And earth one glory.  I am but a shell
        That moves, not of itself, and moving sings;
        Leaving a fragrance, faint as wine new-shed,
        A tremulous murmur from great days long dead.
       
       
       
       
        The Lover in Hell
       
       
       
        Eternally the choking steam goes up
        From the black pools of seething oil. . . .
                                                     How merry
        Those little devils are!  They've stolen the pitchfork
        From Bel, there, as he slept . . . Look! -- oh look, look!
        They've got at Nero!  Oh it isn't fair!
        Lord, how he squeals!  Stop it . . . it's, well -- indecent!
        But funny! . . .  See, Bel's waked.  They'll catch it now!
       
        . . . Eternally that stifling reek arises,
        Blotting the dome with smoky, terrible towers,
        Black, strangling trees, whispering obscene things
        Amongst their branches, clutching with maimed hands,
        Or oozing slowly, like blind tentacles
        Up to the gates; higher than that heaped brick
        Man piled to smite the sun.  And all around
        Are devils.  One can laugh . . . but that hunched shape
        The face one stone, like those Assyrian kings!
        One sees in carvings, watching men flayed red
        Horribly laughable in leaps and writhes;
        That face -- utterly evil, clouded round
        With evil like a smoke -- it turns smiles sour!
        . . . And Nero there, the flabby cheeks astrain
        And sweating agony . . . long agony . . .
        Imperishable, unappeasable
        For ever . . . well . . . it droops the mouth.  Till I
        Look up.
                  There's one blue patch no smoke dares touch.
        Sky, clear, ineffable, alive with light,
        Always the same . . .
                              Before, I never knew
        Rest and green peace.
                               She stands there in the sun.
        . . . It seems so quaint she should have long gold wings.
        I never have got used -- folded across
        Her breast, or fluttering with fierce, pure light,
        Like shaken steel.  Her crown too.  Well, it's queer!
        And then she never cared much for the harp
        On earth.  Here, though . . .
                                      She is all peace, all quiet,
        All passionate desires, the eloquent thunder
        Of new, glad suns, shouting aloud for joy,
        Over fresh worlds and clean, trampling the air
        Like stooping hawks, to the long wind of horns,
        Flung from the bastions of Eternity . . .
        And she is the low lake, drowsy and gentle,
        And good words spoken from the tongues of friends,
        And calmness in the evening, and deep thoughts,
        Falling like dreams from the stars' solemn mouths.
        All these.
                    They said she was unfaithful once.
        Or I remembered it -- and so, for that,
        I lie here, I suppose.  Yes, so they said.
        You see she is so troubled, looking down,
        Sorrowing deeply for my torments.  I
        Of course, feel nothing while I see her -- save
        That sometimes when I think the matter out,
        And what earth-people said of us, of her,
        It seems as if I must be, here, in heaven,
        And she --
                   . . . Then I grow proud; and suddenly
        There comes a splatter of oil against my skin,
        Hurting this time.  And I forget my pride:
        And my face writhes.
                              Some day the little ladder
        Of white words that I build up, up, to her
        May fetch me out.  Meanwhile it isn't bad. . . .
       
        But what a sense of humor God must have!
       
       
       
       
        Winged Man
       
       
       
        The moon, a sweeping scimitar, dipped in the stormy straits,
        The dawn, a crimson cataract, burst through the eastern gates,
        The cliffs were robed in scarlet, the sands were cinnabar,
        Where first two men spread wings for flight and dared the hawk afar.
       
        There stands the cunning workman, the crafty past all praise,
        The man who chained the Minotaur, the man who built the Maze.
        His young son is beside him and the boy's face is a light,
        A light of dawn and wonder and of valor infinite.
       
        Their great vans beat the cloven air, like eagles they mount up,
        Motes in the wine of morning, specks in a crystal cup,
        And lest his wings should melt apace old Daedalus flies low,
        But Icarus beats up, beats up, he goes where lightnings go.
       
        He cares no more for warnings, he rushes through the sky,
        Braving the crags of ether, daring the gods on high,
        Black 'gainst the crimson sunset, golden o'er cloudy snows,
        With all Adventure in his heart the first winged man arose.
       
        Dropping gold, dropping gold, where the mists of morning rolled,
        On he kept his way undaunted, though his breaths were stabs of cold,
        Through the mystery of dawning that no mortal may behold.
       
        Now he shouts, now he sings in the rapture of his wings,
        And his great heart burns intenser with the strength of his desire,
        As he circles like a swallow, wheeling, flaming, gyre on gyre.
       
        Gazing straight at the sun, half his pilgrimage is done,
        And he staggers for a moment, hurries on, reels backward, swerves
        In a rain of scattered feathers as he falls in broken curves.
       
        Icarus, Icarus, though the end is piteous,
        Yet forever, yea, forever we shall see thee rising thus,
        See the first supernal glory, not the ruin hideous.
       
        You were Man, you who ran farther than our eyes can scan,
        Man absurd, gigantic, eager for impossible Romance,
        Overthrowing all Hell's legions with one warped and broken lance.
       
        On the highest steeps of Space he will have his dwelling-place,
        In those far, terrific regions where the cold comes down like Death
        Gleams the red glint of his pinions, smokes the vapor of his breath.
       
        Floating downward, very clear, still the echoes reach the ear
       
        Of a little tune he whistles and a little song he sings,
        Mounting, mounting still, triumphant, on his torn and broken wings!
       
       
       
       
        Music
       
       
       
        My friend went to the piano; spun the stool
        A little higher; left his pipe to cool;
        Picked up a fat green volume from the chest;
        And propped it open.
                              Whitely without rest,
        His fingers swept the keys that flashed like swords,
        . . . And to the brute drums of barbarian hordes,
        Roaring and thunderous and weapon-bare,
        An army stormed the bastions of the air!
        Dreadful with banners, fire to slay and parch,
        Marching together as the lightnings march,
        And swift as storm-clouds.  Brazen helms and cars
        Clanged to a fierce resurgence of old wars
        Above the screaming horns.  In state they passed,
        Trampling and splendid on and sought the vast --
        Rending the darkness like a leaping knife,
        The flame, the noble pageant of our life!
        The burning seal that stamps man's high indenture
        To vain attempt and most forlorn adventure;
        Romance, and purple seas, and toppling towns,
        And the wind's valiance crying o'er the downs;
        That nerves the silly hand, the feeble brain,
        From the loose net of words to deeds again
        And to all courage!  Perilous and sharp
        The last chord shook me as wind shakes a harp!
        . . . And my friend swung round on his stool, and from gods we were men,
        "How pretty!" we said; and went on with our talk again.
       
       
       
       
        The Innovator
       
        (A Pharaoh Speaks.)
       
       
       
        I said, "Why should a pyramid
        Stand always dully on its base?
        I'll change it!  Let the top be hid,
        The bottom take the apex-place!"
        And as I bade they did.
       
        The people flocked in, scores on scores,
        To see it balance on its tip.
        They praised me with the praise that bores,
        My godlike mind on every lip.
        -- Until it fell, of course.
       
        And then they took my body out
        From my crushed palace, mad with rage,
        -- Well, half the town WAS wrecked, no doubt --
        Their crazy anger to assuage
        By dragging it about.
       
        The end?  Foul birds defile my skull.
        The new king's praises fill the land.
        He clings to precept, simple, dull;
        HIS pyramids on bases stand.
        But -- Lord, how usual!
       
       
       
       
        Love in Twilight
       
       
       
        There is darkness behind the light -- and the pale light drips
        Cold on vague shapes and figures, that, half-seen loom
        Like the carven prows of proud, far-triumphing ships --
        And the firelight wavers and changes about the room,
       
        As the three logs crackle and burn with a small still sound;
        Half-blotting with dark the deeper dark of her hair,
        Where she lies, head pillowed on arm, and one hand curved round
        To shield the white face and neck from the faint thin glare.
       
        Gently she breathes -- and the long limbs lie at ease,
        And the rise and fall of the young, slim, virginal breast
        Is as certain-sweet as the march of slow wind through trees,
        Or the great soft passage of clouds in a sky at rest.
       
        I kneel, and our arms enlace, and we kiss long, long.
        I am drowned in her as in sleep.  There is no more pain.
        Only the rustle of flames like a broken song
        That rings half-heard through the dusty halls of the brain.
       
        One shaking and fragile moment of ecstasy,
        While the grey gloom flutters and beats like an owl above.
        And I would not move or speak for the sea or the sky
        Or the flame-bright wings of the miraculous Dove!
       
       
       
       
        The Fiddling Wood
       
       
       
        Gods, what a black, fierce day!  The clouds were iron,
        Wrenched to strange, rugged shapes; the red sun winked
        Over the rough crest of the hairy wood
        In angry scorn; the grey road twisted, kinked,
        Like a sick serpent, seeming to environ
        The trees with magic.  All the wood was still --
       
        Cracked, crannied pines bent like malicious cripples
        Before the gusty wind; they seemed to nose,
        Nudge, poke each other, cackling with ill mirth --
        Enchantment's days were over -- sh! -- Suppose
        That crouching log there, where the white light stipples
        Should -- break its quiet!  WAS THAT CRIMSON -- EARTH?
       
        It smirched the ground like a lewd whisper, "Danger!" --
        I hunched my cloak about me -- then, appalled,
        Turned ice and fire by turns -- for -- someone stirred
        The brown, dry needles sharply!  Terror crawled
        Along my spine, as forth there stepped -- a Stranger!
        And all the pines crooned like a drowsy bird!
       
        His stock was black.  His great shoe-buckles glistened.
        His fur cuffs ended in a sheen of rings.
        And underneath his coat a case bulged blackly --
        He swept his beaver in a rush of wings!
        Then took the fiddle out, and, as I listened,
        Tightened and tuned the yellowed strings, hung slackly.
       
        Ping!  Pang!  The clear notes swooped and curved and darted,
        Rising like gulls.  Then, with a finger skinny,
        He rubbed the bow with rosin, said, "Your pardon
        Signor! -- Maestro Nicolo Paganini
        They used to call me!  Tchk! --  The cold grips hard on
        A poor musician's fingers!" --  His lips parted.
       
        A tortured soul screamed suddenly and loud,
        From the brown, quivering case!  Then, faster, faster,
        Dancing in flame-like whorls, wild, beating, screaming,
        The music wailed unutterable disaster;
        Heartbroken murmurs from pale lips once proud,
        Dead, choking moans from hearts once nobly dreaming.
       
        Till all resolved in anguish -- died away
        Upon one minor chord, and was resumed
        In anguish; fell again to a low cry,
        Then rose triumphant where the white fires fumed,
        Terrible, marching, trampling, reeling, gay,
        Hurling mad, broken legions down to die
       
        Through everlasting hells --  The tears were salt
        Upon my fingers --  Then, I saw, behind
        The fury of the player, all the trees
        Crouched like violinists, boughs crooked, jerking, blind,
        Sweeping mad bows to music without fault,
        Grey cheeks to greyer fiddles, withered knees.
       
        Gasping, I fled! -- but still that devilish tune
        Stunned ears and brain alike -- till clouds of dust
        Blotted the picture, and the noise grew dim --
        Shaking, I reached the town -- and turned -- in trust --
        Wind-smitten, dread, against the sky-line's rim,
        Black, dragon branches whipped below a moon!