Enamels and Cameos and other Poems. Gautier Théophile

all the anguish of its dart.

      So sweetly, falsely, doth it steal,

      So cruel, yet so tender, too,

      So cold, so burning, that I feel

      A deadly pleasure pierce me through;

      Until my heart, an archway deep

      Whose waters feed the fountain's lip,

      Lets tears of blood in silence weep

      Into my bosom drip by drip.

      O Carnival of Venice! – theme

      So chilling sad, yet ever warm!

      Where laughter toucheth tears supreme, —

      How hast thou hurt me with thy charm!

      SYMPHONY IN WHITE MAJOR

      In the Northern tales of eld,

      From the Rhine's escarpments high

      Swan-women radiant were beheld,

      Singing and floating by,

      Or, leaving their plumage bright

      On a bough that was bending low,

      Displaying skin more gleaming white

      Than the white of their down of snow.

      At times one comes our way, —

      Of all she is pallidest,

      White as the moonbeam's shivering ray

      On a glacier's icy crest.

      Her boreal bloom doth win

      Our eyes to feasting rare

      On rich delight of nacreous skin,

      And a wealth of whiteness fair.

      Her rounded breasts, pale globes

      Of snow, wage insolent war

      With her camellias and her robes

      Of whiteness nebular.

      In such white wars supreme

      She wins, and weft and flower

      Leave their revenge's right, and seem

      Yellowed with envy's hour.

      On the white of her shoulder bare,

      Whose marble Paros lends,

      As through the Polar twilight fair,

      Invisible frost descends.

      What beaming virgin snow,

      What pith a reed within,

      What Host, what taper, did bestow

      The white of her matchless skin?

      Was she made of a milky drop

      On the blue of a winter heaven?

      The lily-blow on the stem's green top?

      The foam of the sea at even?

      Of the marble still and cold,

      Wherein the great gods dwell?

      Of creamy opal gems that hold

      Faint fires of mystic spell?

      Or the organ's ivory keys?

      Her wingèd fingers oft

      Like butterflies flit over these,

      With kisses pending soft.

      Of the ermine's stainless fold,

      Whose white, warm touches fall

      On shivering shoulders and on bold,

      Bright shields armorial?

      Of the phantom flowers of frost

      Enscrolled on the window clear?

      Of the fountain drop in the chill air lost,

      An Undine's frozen tear?

      Of May bent low with the sweets

      Of her bountiful white-thorn bloom?

      Of alabaster that repeats

      The pallor of grief and gloom?

      Of the feathers of doves that slip

      And snow on the gable steep?

      Of slow stalactite's tear-white drip

      In cavernous places deep?

      Came she from Greenland floes

      With Seraphita forth?

      Is she Madonna of the Snows?

      A sphinx of the icy North,

      Sphinx buried by avalanche,

      The glacier's guardian ghost,

      Whose frozen secrets hide and blanch

      In her white heart innermost?

      What magic of what far name

      Shall this pale soul ignite?

      Ah! who shall flush with rose's flame

      This cold, implacable white?

      COQUETRY IN DEATH

      I beg ye grant, when low I lie,

      Before ye close my coffin-bed,

      A little black beneath mine eye,

      And on my cheek a touch of red!

      Ah, make me beautiful as now!

      For I would be upon my bier,

      As on the night of his avow

      Charming and bloomful, gay and dear.

      For me no linen winding-sheet!

      But gown me very grand and bright.

      Bring forth my frock of muslin sweet,

      With many ruffles soft and white.

      My favourite frock! I wore it well,

      Who wore it at love's flowering.

      And since his look upon it fell,

      I've kept it as a sacred thing.

      For me no funeral coronet,

      No tear-embroidered cushion place;

      But o 'er my fair lace pillow let

      My hair droop free about my face.

      Dear pillow! Often did it mark,

      In mad, sweet nights our brows unlit,

      And, all within the gondola dark,

      Did count our kisses infinite.

      About my waxen hands supine,

      Folded in prayer at life's deep gloam,

      My rosary of opals twine,

      Blessed by His Holiness at Rome.

      I'll finger it, when bedded cold

      Where never one shall rise. How oft

      His lips upon my lips have told

      A Pater and an Ave soft!

      HEART'S DIAMOND

      Every lover deep hath set

      In a sacred nook apart

      Some dear token for the heart

      In its hope or its regret.

      One hath nested safe away

      Blackest ringlet ever seen,

      Over which an azure sheen

      Lieth, as on wing of jay.

      One