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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341945" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ave atque Vale (In memory of Charles Baudelaire)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">SHALL I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, <br> Brother, on this that was the veil of thee? <br> Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the sea, <br>Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel, <br> Such as the summer-sleepy Dryads weave, <br> Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve? <br>Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before, <br> Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat <br> And full of bitter summer, but more sweet <br>To thee than gleanings of a northern shore <br> Trod by no tropic feet? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For always thee the fervid languid glories <br> Allured of heavier suns in mightier skies; <br> Thine ears knew all the wandering watery sighs <br>Where the sea sobs round Lesbian promontories, <br> The barren kiss of piteous wave to wave <br> That knows not where is that Leucadian grave <br>Which hides too deep the supreme head of song. <br> Ah, salt and sterile as her kisses were, <br> The wild sea winds her and the green gulfs bear <br>Hither and thither, and vex and work her wrong, <br> Blind gods that cannot spare. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou sawest, in thine old singing season, brother, <br> Secrets and sorrows unbeheld of us: <br> Fierce loves, and lovely leaf-buds poisonous, <br>Bare to thy subtler eye, but for none other <br> Blowing by night in some unbreathed-in clime; <br> The hidden harvest of luxurious time, <br>Sin without shape, and pleasure without speech; <br> And where strange dreams in a tumultuous sleep <br> Make the shut eyes of stricken spirits weep; <br>And with each face thou sawest the shadow on each, <br> Seeing as men sow men reap. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping, <br> That were athirst for sleep and no more life <br> And no more love, for peace and no more strife! <br>Now the dim gods of death have in their keeping <br> Spirit and body and all the springs of song, <br> Is it well now where love can do no wrong, <br>Where stingless pleasure has no foam or fang <br> Behind the unopening closure of her lips? <br> Is it not well where soul from body slips <br>And flesh from bone divides without a pang <br> As dew from flower-bell drips? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is enough; the end and the beginning <br> Are one thing to thee, who art past the end. <br> O hand unclasp'd of unbeholden friend, <br>For thee no fruits to pluck, no palms for winning, <br> No triumph and no labour and no lust, <br> Only dead yew-leaves and a little dust. <br>O quiet eyes wherein the light saith naught, <br> Whereto the day is dumb, nor any night <br> With obscure finger silences your sight, <br>Nor in your speech the sudden soul speaks thought, <br> Sleep, and have sleep for light. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now all strange hours and all strange loves are over, <br> Dreams and desires and sombre songs and sweet, <br> Hast thou found place at the great knees and feet <br>Of some pale Titan-woman like a lover, <br> Such as thy vision here solicited, <br> Under the shadow of her fair vast head, <br>The deep division of prodigious breasts, <br> The solemn slope of mighty limbs asleep, <br> The weight of awful tresses that still keep <br>The savour and shade of old-world pine-forests <br> Where the wet hill-winds weep? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hast thou found any likeness for thy vision? <br> O gardener of strange flowers, what bud, what bloom, <br> Hast thou found sown, what gather'd in the gloom? <br>What of despair, of rapture, of derision, <br> What of life is there, what of ill or good? <br> Are the fruits gray like dust or bright like blood? <br>Does the dim ground grow any seed of ours, <br> The faint fields quicken any terrene root, <br> In low lands where the sun and moon are mute <br>And all the stars keep silence? Are there flowers <br> At all, or any fruit? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alas, but though my flying song flies after, <br> O sweet strange elder singer, thy more fleet <br> Singing, and footprints of thy fleeter feet, <br>Some dim derision of mysterious laughter <br> From the blind tongueless warders of the dead, <br> Some gainless glimpse of Proserpine's veil'd head, <br>Some little sound of unregarded tears <br> Wept by effaced unprofitable eyes, <br> And from pale mouths some cadence of dead sighs-- <br>These only, these the hearkening spirit hears, <br> Sees only such things rise. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou art far too far for wings of words to follow, <br> Far too far off for thought or any prayer. <br> What ails us with thee, who art wind and air? <br>What ails us gazing where all seen is hollow? <br> Yet with some fancy, yet with some desire, <br> Dreams pursue death as winds a flying fire, <br>Our dreams pursue our dead and do not find. <br> Still, and more swift than they, the thin flame flies, <br> The low light fails us in elusive skies, <br>Still the foil'd earnest ear is deaf, and blind <br> Are still the eluded eyes. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not thee, O never thee, in all time's changes, <br> Not thee, but this the sound of thy sad soul, <br> The shadow of thy swift spirit, this shut scroll <br>I lay my hand on, and not death estranges <br> My spirit from communion of thy song-- <br> These memories and these melodies that throng <br>Veil'd porches of a Muse funereal-- <br> These I salute, these touch, these clasp and fold <br> As though a hand were in my hand to hold, <br>Or through mine ears a mourning musical <br> Of many mourners roll'd. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I among these, I also, in such station <br> As when the pyre was charr'd, and piled the sods. <br> And offering to the dead made, and their gods, <br>The old mourners had, standing to make libation, <br> I stand, and to the Gods and to the dead <br> Do reverence without prayer or praise, and shed <br>Offering to these unknown, the gods of gloom, <br> And what of honey and spice my seed-lands bear, <br> And what I may of fruits in this chill'd air, <br>And lay, Orestes-like, across the tomb <br> A curl of sever'd hair. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But by no hand nor any treason stricken, <br> Not like the low-lying head of Him, the King, <br> The flame that made of Troy a ruinous thing, <br>Thou liest and on this dust no tears could quicken. <br> There fall no tears like theirs that all men hear <br> Fall tear by sweet imperishable tear <br>Down the opening leaves of holy poets' pages. <br> Thee not Orestes, not Electra mourns; <br> But bending us-ward with memorial urns <br>The most high Muses that fulfil all ages <br> Weep, and our God's heart yearns. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For, sparing of his sacred strength, not often <br> Among us darkling here the lord of light <br> Makes manifest his music and his might <br>In hearts that open and in lips that soften <br> With the soft flame and heat of songs that shine. <br> Thy lips indeed he touch'd with bitter wine, <br>And nourish'd them indeed with bitter bread; <br> Yet surely from his hand thy soul's food came, <br> The fire that scarr'd thy spirit at his flame <br>Was lighted, and thine hungering heart he fed <br> Who feeds our hearts with fame. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Therefore he too now at thy soul's sunsetting, <br> God of all suns and songs, he too bends down <br> To mix his laurel with thy cypress crown, <br>And save thy dust from blame and from forgetting. <br> Therefore he too, seeing all thou wert and art, <br> Compassionate, with sad and sacred heart, <br>Mourns thee of many his children the last dead, <br> And hollows with strange tears and alien sighs <br> Thine unmelodious mouth and sunless eyes, <br>And over thine irrevocable head <br> Sheds light from the under skies. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And one weeps with him in the ways Lethean, <br> And stains with tears her changing bosom chill; <br> That obscure Venus of the hollow hill, <br>That thing transform'd which was the Cytherean, <br> With lips that lost their Grecian laugh divine <br> Long since, and face no more call'd Erycine-- <br>A ghost, a bitter and luxurious god. <br> Thee also with fair flesh and singing spell <br> Did she, a sad and second prey, compel <br>Into the footless places once more trod, <br> And shadows hot from hell. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And now no sacred staff shall break in blossom, <br> No choral salutation lure to light <br> A spirit sick with perfume and sweet night <br>And love's tired eyes and hands and barren bosom. <br> There is no help for these things; none to mend, <br> And none to mar; not all our songs, O friend, <br>Will make death clear or make life durable. <br> Howbeit with rose and ivy and wild vine <br> And with wild notes about this dust of thine <br>At least I fill the place where white dreams dwell <br> And wreathe an unseen shrine. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, <br> If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; <br> And to give thanks is good, and to forgive. <br>Out of the mystic and the mournful garden <br> Where all day through thine hands in barren braid <br> Wove the sick flowers of secrecy and shade, <br>Green buds of sorrow and sin, and remnants gray, <br> Sweet-smelling, pale with poison, sanguine-hearted, <br> Passions that sprang from sleep and thoughts that started, <br>Shall death not bring us all as thee one day <br> Among the days departed? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For thee, O now a silent soul, my brother, <br> Take at my hands this garland, and farewell. <br> Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry smell, <br>And chill the solemn earth, a fatal mother, <br> With sadder than the Niobean womb, <br> And in the hollow of her breasts a tomb. <br>Content thee, howsoe'er, whose days are done; <br> There lies not any troublous thing before, <br> Nor sight nor sound to war against thee more, <br>For whom all winds are quiet as the sun, <br> All waters as the shore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Algernon+Charles+Swinburne">Algernon Charles Swinburne</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341945" data-title="Ave atque Vale (In memory of Charles Baudelaire) de Algernon Charles Swinburne" data-description="SHALL I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, Brother, on this that was the veil of thee? Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the sea, Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel, Such as the su..."></div> </div> </div>
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