the nooks in the wood—
“O, enough!” she exclaimed as she kissed me,
“This attic and couch are as good.”
Midnight Mood
There’s one upon whose youthful breast I fain would die:
My soul upon her lingering lips through mine I’d pour
In torrents that would reach and thrill Love’s every shore—
In floods that drown the earth and rise to drown the sky.
But how can I? Alas, the leaves must shield the flower,
And silent see her proffering to the butterfly
Her cheeks, her honeyed lips, her soul—O, how can I?
In all the worlds, to change my being, is there no power?
How oft I rise at night to probe the human laws,
My beating temples all my waking hours recording!
And nor solution, nor repose my task affording.—
How oft my carnal silence cries for the bliss that was!
The bliss that generous nature gives, that man denies—
A bliss that’s chained in idle words and damned codes
And creeds and customs creeping in their dark abodes—
The bliss that’s lost within an endless maze of lies.
Pray, tell me, must the North Wind blow and sweep by rule?
Must he the virgin ponds and springs and rills avoid?
See how the ocean, panting, rising, overjoyed,
Holds out her arms to him—why not the limpid pool?
And thou, O human Ocean—would that I could give
In equal measure, when beneath me thou art parting!
O, generous, fiery soul, in love though I am wanting,
My flesh, within thy passion’s hearth, will glow and live.
Thou art the twilight; I’m the dawn; yet we shall meet
And flood the firmament with fire and rainbow beauty.
No unfed sun or moon shall rob us of our booty,
And if the gods should frown—is not rebellion sweet?
But ah, live Twilight! why cannot the Dawn be true?
Why can’t I quaff from thy sad lips, as thou, from mine?
Why can’t this heart, forgetting once, as well be thine?
How can I my most holy passion tame, subdue?
That youthful breast, imprisoned, I see through thine own;
Those Eastern eyes cannot be hidden by thy flame;
That form, as I am in thine arms—O, do not blame—
In mine I fancy—let me die in shame alone!
Thy Smile
Outside the gates of night, above the moon,
Where breatheth none but gods, where light alone
Forever rules from his star-studded throne,
Where Melancholy never reaches noon,
And where the Pleiades their harps attune—
There in the centre of the lightning zone,
Upon the zephyr which the storm hath sown,
Thou first wert formed with pleasure to commune.
And now in Pleasure’s world, upon the face
Of bright and gay Bohemia’s fairest child
The zephyr dallies with the lightning flash;
The smile divine, as well the subtle grace
Are deeply there impressed, by naught defiled—
There joy’s received as well as paid in cash.
Unadorned
Regardless of the cries of priests and sages
I strove to give my bleeding soul her wages;
And each embrace or memory of one
Is worth to me the treasures of the ages,
Is worth to me the treasures of the ages.
Each shadow of a kiss or fond embrace
Down in the depth of solitude I trace;
And in the corners of my darkest den
The fallen gods of pleasure find a place,
The fallen gods of pleasure find a place.
And though knee-deep I find myself in hell,
And though the flames around my cheeks should swell,
I shall not loose my grip on Allah’s throne,
I shall not fall alone, I know full well,
I shall not fall alone, I know full well.
Dissolution
I languish in thy penetrating clasp,
Just as a bird entangled on a bough
Shaken by the wind;
Yet here would I be happy in the grasp
Of death; but in thy breast I’m hidden now,
And death is blind.
I melt beneath thy storm of kisses, dear,
Just as the gum upon the almond tree
Of melting when alone and far from thee:
Melts ’neath the rain;
Yet would I melt to-night than live in fear
O, storm again!
A Serenade
The moon hath said her sad good-bye,
My sleeping queen;
And all the stars are wondering why
Thou art unseen.
Behold! abashed, they take to flight,
As through the casement breaks thy light.
Arise, my dawn, arise!
Arise, my queen serene!
The field of heaven is all thine own,
My peerless star,
Just as my heart is thine alone,
Be near or far.
So let thy face adorn the night,
And flood it with thy dazzling light.
Arise, my queen, arise!
Arise, to my guitar!
The vaults above all vacant seem,
My sweetest flower;
And for thy scent, the cherubim
Long at this hour.
A moment from thy sweet dream part,
Though in that dream be wove my heart.
Arise, my queen, arise!
Let fall thy perfume shower.
The Brass Bed
I love thy color and thy symmetry;
I love the art that wrought thy glittering arms,
Thy canopy, thy satin portieres too;
I love the silks and feathers on thy breast—
The cushions and the pillows and the quilts:
I love thine every part.
Yet still more do I love to rest in thee—
To dream of art’s perfection in thy frame;
Of paths as smooth, as shining as thy limbs;
Of scenes as exquisite as thy coils;
Of nooks as warm as thine hospitable bosom,
As cool and as refreshing as thy veinless naked arms,
I dream of all beneath thy soothing mantle.
But O, I love my dreams much more than thee,
And one sad soul much more than all my dreams.
If thou hadst but an eye to see,
To look upon the guest that lay upon thy floor
Beneath thy silken ceiling!
O, hadst thou but an ear to hear
The plaintive chirpings of this swallow-soul.
Couldst thou but feel her forehead
Moistened with the sweat of hope and pain.
For forty moons she lay within thine arms,
Rubbing her erstwhile rosy cheeks
Against the ulcers of Ayoub of yore.
Couldst thou but see, O Bed of Brass,
Couldst thou but hear, couldst thou but feel—
Of what use all thy showy stuff—
Thy glittering brass, the filigree of art,
Thy floor of down and feather cushions all,
Thy snow-white mantles, satin tapestries?
Beauty and Pain!
Death will not come
