Baudelaire: His Prose and Poetry. Sturm Frank Pearce

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      I among these, I also, in such station

      As when the pyre was charred, and piled the sods,

      And offering to the dead made, and their gods,

      The old mourners had, standing to make libation,

      I stand, and to the gods and to the dead

      Do reverence without prayer or praise, and shed

      Offering to these unknown, the gods of gloom,

      And what of honey and spice my seedlands bear,

      And what I may of fruits in this chilled air,

      And lay, Orestes-like, across the tomb

      A curl of severed hair.

      But by no hand nor any treason stricken,

      Not like the low-lying head of Him, the King,

      The flame that made of Troy a ruinous thing,

      Thou liest and on this dust no tears could quicken

      There fall no tears like theirs that all men hear

      Fall tear by sweet imperishable tear

      Down the opening leaves of holy poet's pages.

      Thee not Orestes, not Electra mourns;

      But bending us-ward with memorial urns

      The most high Muses that fulfil all ages

      Weep, and our God's heart yearns.

      For, sparing of his sacred strength, not often

      Among us darkling here the lord of light

      Makes manifest his music and his might

      In hearts that open and in lips that soften

      With the soft flame and heat of songs that shine.

      Thy lips indeed he touched with bitter wine,

      And nourished them indeed with bitter bread;

      Yet surely from his hand thy soul's food came,

      The fire that scarred thy spirit at his flame

      Was lighted, and thine hungering heart he fed

      Who feeds our hearts with fame.

      Therefore he too now at thy soul's sunsetting,

      God of all suns and songs, he too bends down

      To mix his laurel with thy cypress crown

      And save thy dust from blame and from forgetting.

      Therefore he too, seeing all thou wert and art,

      Compassionate, with sad and sacred heart,

      Mourns thee of many his children the last dead,

      And hallows with strange tears and alien sighs

      Thine unmelodious mouth and sunless eyes,

      And over thine irrevocable head

      Sheds light from the under skies.

      And one weeps with him in the ways Lethean,

      And stains with tears her changing bosom chill;

      That obscure Venus of the hollow hill,

      That thing transformed which was the Cytherean,

      With lips that lost their Grecian laugh divine

      Long since, and face no more called Erycine

      A ghost, a bitter and luxurious god.

      Thee also with fair flesh and singing spell

      Did she, a sad and second prey, compel

      Into the footless places once more trod,

      And shadows hot from hell.

      And now no sacred staff shall break in blossom,

      No choral salutation lure to light

      A spirit with perfume and sweet night

      And love's tired eyes and hands and barren bosom.

      There is no help for these things; none to mend,

      And none to mar; not all our songs, O friend,

      Will make death clear or make life durable.

      Howbeit with rose and ivy and wild vine

      And with wild notes about this dust of thine

      At least I fill the place where white dreams dwell

      And wreathe an unseen shrine.

      Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon,

      If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live

      And to give thanks is good, and to forgive.

      Out of the mystic and the mournful garden

      Where all day through thine hands in barren braid

      Wove the sick flowers of secrecy and shade,

      Green buds of sorrow and sin, and remnants gray,

      Sweet-smelling, pale with poison, sanguine-hearted,

      Passions that sprang from sleep and thoughts that started,

      Shall death not bring us all as thee one day

      Among the days departed?

      For thee, O now a silent soul, my brother,

      Take at my hands this garland, and farewell.

      Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry smell,

      And chill the solemn earth, a fatal mother,

      With sadder than the Niobean womb,

      And in the hollow of her breasts a tomb.

      Content thee, howsoe'er, whose days are done:

      There lies not any troublous thing before,

      Nor sight nor sound to war against thee more,

      For whom all winds are quiet as the sun,

      All waters as the shore.