What were all the world's alarms To mighty Paris when he found Sleep upon a golden bed That first dawn in Helen's arms?
The fascination of what's difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart.
But boys and girls, pale from the imagined love Of solitary beds, knew what they were, That passion could bring character enough And pressed at midnighht in some public place Live lips upon a plummet-measured face.
I see a schoolboy when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window.
And there's a score of duchesses, surpassing womankind, Or who have found a painter to make them so for pay And smooth out stain and blemish with the elegance of his mind: I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.
While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.
I would that I were an old beggar Rolling a blind pearl eye, For he cannot see my lady Go gallivanting by.
In luck or out the toil has left its mark: That old perplexity an empty purse, Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.
Whatever flames upon the night Man's own resinous heart has fed.
All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the plowman, splashing the wintry mold, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.
Whence had they come The hand and lash that beat down frigid Rome? What sacred drama through her body heaved When world-transforming Charlemagne was conceived?
Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
I made my song a coat Covered with embroideries Out of old mythologies From heel to throat But the fools caught it, Wore it in the world's eyes As though they'd wrought it. Song, let them take it, For there's more enterprise In walking naked.
How could passion run so deep Had I never thought That the crime of being born Blackens all our lot?
The women that I picked spoke sweet and low And yet gave tongue. "Hound voices" were they all.
I can exchange opinion with any neighbouring mind, I have as healthy flesh and blood as any rhymer's had, But O! my Heart could bear no more when the upland caught the wind; I ran, I ran, from my love's side because my Heart went mad.
Boughs have their fruit and blossom At all times of the year; Rivers are running over With red beer and brown beer.
Come swish around my pretty punk And keep me dancing still That I may stay a sober man Although I drink my fill.
May we two stand, When we are dead, beyond the setting suns, A little from other shades apart, With mingling hair, and play upon one lute.
Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.
What shall I do with this absurdity- O heart, O troubled heart-this caricature, Decrepit age that has been tied to me As to a dog's tail? Never had I more Excited, passionate, fantastical Imagination, nor an ear and eye That more expected the impossible.
. . . you may think I waste my breath Pretending that there can be passion That has more life in it than death
Why should the imagination of a man Long past his prime remember things that are Emblematical of love and war?
now I bring full-flavoured wine out of a barrel found Where seven Ephesian topers slept and never knew When Alexander's empire passed, they slept so sound.
A mouth that has no moisture and no breath Breathless mouths may summon; I hail the superhuman; I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.
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