The flesh is sad, alas! and all the books are read. Flight, only flight! I feel that birds are wild to tread The floor of unknown foam, and to attain the skies! Nought, neither ancient gardens mirrored in the eyes, Shall hold this heart that bathes in waters its delight, O nights! nor yet my waking lamp, whose lonely light Shadows the vacant paper, whiteness profits best, Nor the young wife who rocks her baby on her breast. I will depart! O steamer, swaying rope and spar, Lift anchor for exotic lands that lie afar! A weariness, outworn by cruel hopes, still clings To the last farewell handkerchief's last beckonings! And are not these, the masts inviting storms, not these That an awakening wind bends over wrecking seas, Lost, not a sail, a sail, a flowering isle, ere long? But, O my heart, hear thou, hear thou the sailors' song! IV. ANGUISH To-night I do not come to conquer thee, O Beast that dost the sins of the whole world bear, Nor with my kisses' weary misery Wake a sad tempest in thy wanton hair; It is that heavy and that dreamless sleep I ask of the close curtains of thy bed, Which, after all thy treacheries, folds thee deep, Who knowest oblivion better than the dead. For Vice, that gnaws with keener tooth than Time, Brands me as thee, of barren conquest proud; But while thou guardest in thy breast of stone A heart that fears no fang of any crime, I wander palely, haunted by my shroud, Fearing to die if I but sleep alone. _From Paul Verlaine: Fêtes Galantes_ I. CLAIR DE LUNE Your soul is a sealed garden, and there go With masque and bergamasque fair companies Playing on lutes and dancing and as though Sad under their fantastic fripperies. Though they in minor keys go carolling Of love the conqueror and of life the boon They seem to doubt the happiness they sing And the song melts into the light of the moon, The sad light of the moon, so lovely fair That all the birds dream in the leafy shade And the slim fountains sob into the air Among the marble statues in the glade. II. PANTOMIME Pierrot, no sentimental swain, Washes a paté down again With furtive flagons, white and red. Cassandre, with demure content, Greets with a tear of sentiment His nephew disinherited. That blackguard of a Harlequin Pirouettes, and plots to win His Columbine that flits and flies. Columbine dreams, and starts to find A sad heart sighing in the wind, And in her heart a voice that sighs. III. SUR L'HERBE The Abbé wanders.--Marquis, now Set straight your periwig, and speak! --This Cyprus wine is heavenly, how Much less, Camargo, than your cheek!