Part 6 (2/2)

Praise me, though praise I do not want, Rather, that I have cast much cant, That what I see and feel I write Read what I can in this dim light Granted to me in nether night.

And though I am vague and shrink to guess G.o.d's everlasting purposes, And never save in perplext dream Have caught the least authentic gleam Of the great kingdom and the throne In the world that lies behind our own, I have not lacked my certainties, I have not haggard moaned the skies, Now waged unnecessary strife Nor scorned nor overvalued life.

And though you say my att.i.tude Is questioning, concede my mood Does never bring to tongue or pen Accents of gloomy modern men Who wail or hail the death of G.o.d And weigh and measure man the clod, Or say they draw reluctant breath And musically mourn that Death Is a queen omnipotent of woe And Life her lean cicisbeo, Abject and pale, whom vampire-like She playeth with ere she shall strike, And pose sad riddles to the Sphinx With raven quills in purple inks,...

Then send the boy to fetch more drinks.

EPILOGUE

Than farthest stars more distant, A mile more, A mile more, A voice cries on insistent: ”You may smile more if you will;

”You may sing too and spring too; But numb at last And dumb at last, Whatever port you cling to, You must come at last to a hill.

”And never a man you'll find there To take your hand And shake your hand; But when you go behind there You must make your hand a sword

”To fence with a foeman swarthy, And swink there Nor shrink there, Though cowardly and worthy Must drink there one reward.”

TWELVE

TRANSLATIONS

FROM

CHARLES BAUDELAIRE

TOUT ENTIeRE

This morning in my attic high The Demon came to visit me, And seeking faults in my reply, He said: ”I would inquire of thee,

”Of all the beauties which compose Her charming body's potent spell, Of all the objects black and rose Which make the thing you love so well,

”Which is the sweetest?” O my soul!

Thou didst rejoin: ”How tell of parts, When all I know is that the whole Works magic in my heart of hearts?

”Where all is fair, how should I say What single grace is my delight?

She s.h.i.+nes on me like break of day And she consoles me as the night.

”There flows through all her perfect frame A harmony too exquisite That weak a.n.a.lysis should name The numberless accords of it.

”O mystic metamorphosis!

My separate senses all are blent; Within her breath soft music is, And in her voice a subtle scent!”

<script>