I have had no comfort since that day, Although my heart went its way. And my heart, being sore in me, Said to my soul: How can this be, How can this be or have been thus, This proud, sad banishment of us? My soul said to my heart: Do I Know what snare we are tangled by, Seeing that, banished, we know not whether We are divided or together? VI Wearily the plain's Endless length expands; The snow shines like grains Of the shifting sands. Light of day is none, Brazen is the sky; Overhead the moon Seems to live and die. Where the woods are seen, Grey the oak-trees lift Through the vaporous screen Like the clouds that drift. Light of day is none, Brazen is the sky; Overhead the moon Seems to live and die. Broken-winded crow, And you, lean wolves, when The sharp north-winds blow, What do you do then? Wearily the plain's Endless length expands; The snow shines like grains Of the shifting sands. VII There's a flight of green and red In the hurry of hills and rails, Through the shadowy twilight shed By the lamps as daylight pales. Dim gold light flushes to blood In humble hollows far down; Birds sing low from a wood Of barren trees without crown. Scarcely more to be felt Than that autumn is gone; Languors, lulled in me, melt In the still air's monotone. VIII. SPLEEN The roses were all red, The ivy was all black: Dear, if you turn your head, All my despairs come back. The sky was too blue, too kind, The sea too green, and the air Too calm: and I know in my mind I shall wake and not find you there. I am tired of the box-tree's shine And the holly's, that never will pass, And the plain's unending line, And of all but you, alas! IX. STREETS Dance the jig! I loved best her pretty eyes Clearer than stars in any skies, I loved her eyes for their dear lies. Dance the jig! And ah! the ways, the ways she had Of driving a poor lover mad: It made a man's heart sad and glad. Dance the jig! But now I find the old kisses shed From her flower-mouth a rarer red Now that her heart to mine is dead. Dance the jig! And I recall, now I recall Old days and hours, and ever shall, And that is best, and best of all. Dance the jig! _From Jadis et Naguère_ I. ART POÉTIQUE Music first and foremost of all! Choose your measure of odd not even, Let it melt in the air of heaven, Pose not, poise not, but rise and fall. Choose your words, but think not whether Each to other of old belong: What so dear as the dim grey song Where clear and vague are joined together?