No poet, no artist of any sort, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists. - T.S.Eliot
* * *
And I... I spent a year of madness
At her black skirts. For all the days
Of torment and of piercing sadness
I was rewarded by her gaze,
A breath of dark blue thunder, and
The gentle touch of her small hand.
I looked at her, and my eyes ringed were
With blue. She called me her sad friend,
And her dreams told me, and I lingered
Beside her... Evenings without end,
Long, dark... Outside, with mournful sound
The wind whirled. Round it went and round.
She put aside her spinning dumbly,
And past the third watch now passed my
Unhappy passion. Her hair I
Began to kiss - and down it tumbled,
And into my heart her adored,
Her dark voice slowly, slowly poured.
Whole nights and days I spend beside her,
At her silk train, in that numb hall.
The fire goes out... The wind's back riding,
The dancing snowflakes start to fall,
I see them through the pane... And lo!-
She rises, she's about to go.
She ties her black silk kerchief tightly,
Gives me a lingering caress -
Her lips my lips with fervour press,
And, hinting at a meeting lightly,
Walks briskly off. In her bright eye
I see the sparks turn dim and die.
The sound of footsteps fast retreating...
The glass door jangles down below,
And from the fireplace comes the low
Rustling of dying coals... With beating
Heart I rush after her... It's dark
And frosty in the silent park.
Night sighs. The snowy flower-beds rounding,
She walks ahead, still firm of stride,
Now nearer comes, now darts aside,
Her footsteps in the distance sounding.
Resplendent in its wintry dress,
The city sleeps, all peacefulness...
No noise save for those steps that echo
In the cold air. Though faint the light,
My lovely snake I see in flight.
She crawls from lamp to lamp. A second,
And there she is! Behind her trails
Her silken train, a comet's tail...
I near her, and, with ardour flaming,
Speak tender words. Lit am I by
Fierce fires my whole spirit claiming.
My head swims as before her I,
A wild beast, stand... A door yawns, then
Is shut, swung open, shut again.
Night, dark night looms ahead like some
Deep chasm. Into it we boldly
Step, then climb up. Delirium.
Great shining eyes. Onto her shoulders
Her hair flows, leaden, robbed of light...
O night of union, tortured night!
Revolt of moments. Dazzling dream.
Embraces offered madly, vainly.
Outside, throng hosts of angels. Faintly
The early dawn shows. Its pale gleam
Steals in... Yet is the night not spent:
It's with us - drunken, violent.
Yes, night is with us! Daytime's night
Envelops us - we're in its power.
Day, day is meant to die, by our
Consuming passion put to flight.
Night's with us: over us it rings
And beats its nervous, trembling wings...
It's dusk again...