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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=429733" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Heine In Paris</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">LATE: a cold smear of sunlight bathes the room; <br>The gilt lime of winter, a sun grown melancholy old, <br>Streams in the glass. Outside, ten thousand chimneys fume, <br>Looping the weather-birds with rings of gold; <br>The spires of Paris, pricked in an iron spume, <br>Uprise like stars of water, and mail the sky. <br>Night comes: the wind is cold. <br>La Mouche has lit the candles, cleared up the mess. <br>She is talking, this merry little girl, of the new clown, <br>Mercutio in red spots, and Miss Nellie, the Equine Princess, <br>Who can ride three terrible horses upside-down . . . . <br>'Mon dieu, quelle cirque!' . . . and Madame Stephanie's dress.. <br>'As true as I live' . . . the clear little voice trickles on, <br>All over the Circus, on and on, and all over the town. <br>Now she has creaked downstairs. Heine is left alone, <br>Knees hugged in bed, the drug purring in his brain, <br>And the windows turning blue. He can see some clouds being blown, <br>Scraping their big, soft bellies on the pane: <br>'Take me, O Clouds!'—but in a puff they've flown. <br>So once they fled in Eighteen Twenty-Nine <br>From—Hamburg, was it?—in a damp disdain . . . . <br>Hamburg—those roofs of tulip-red, those floating trees, <br>Those black masts clotting the air, and swart cigars, <br>And puffed old bankers panting along the quays, <br>And Uncle Solomon shouting amongst the spars, <br>And Uncle Solomon's cargoes, coffee and cheese, <br>And Uncle Solomon's face, like a copper moon, <br>And Uncle Solomon's daughter, and the stars, the stars. <br>O, Hamburg and Amalie—the stars and dung— <br>He remembered suddenly that night he stood below, <br>Dark in the street, with stinging heart and helpless tongue, <br>And her face passed in the pane, like paper to and fro. <br>But in a thousand songs that song was never sung. <br>Amalie, Amalie, who was only a foaming of thought, <br>A thing thought of, and forgotten, long ago. <br>And Louise, Diana, and Jenny, and all those bright, <br>Mad girls who had scrawled their names inside his mind— <br>All vanished, all gone; and all of them forged in a night, <br>Conspired of dreams, and leaving no dream behind, <br>Ungrateful for their dreaming—flight after flight <br>Of musings wrapped in satin, fancies in silk, <br>And a thousand thoughts of naked roses and milk, <br>By love and the moon designed. <br>But now it seemed that these were only one thought, <br>One stone of Venus, cut with a hundred sides, <br>One girl revealed ten thousand times, and caught <br>Ten thousand times from out those amorous tides. <br>Now she was gone. They were all gone, those girls that he had sought, <br>All gone, or paunched in marriage, or crushed in graves, <br>Or promised for other men's brides. <br>And it was only a ghost's hair that had spilt, <br>Fur of the night, in kissing dark and strange, <br>To choke his lips. And all of those worlds he'd built, <br>The girls he'd conjured before his dreams took mange, <br>The rogues he'd stamped on, harlot, trollop, and jilt, <br>The fools he'd blistered—all of them passed and forgotten; <br>But that—that did not change. <br>Men crumbled, man lived on. In that animal's face, <br>'Twas but a squirt aimed at the moon, to fling contempt. <br>Meyerbeer, Borne, and Klopstock vanished, but in their place <br>New Klopstocks, Meyerbeers blown again, and Bornes undreamt, <br>Sprang up like fungi, and there remained no trace <br>Of lashings past. Men, men he could flog for ever, <br>But man was still exempt. <br>That did not change—always the world remained, <br>Breathing and sleeping; loving and taking in love; <br>Fighting and coupling; life by the belly constrained, <br>Stupid in roads of flesh; eating, but never enough; <br>Ravening, never to cease; warring, but nothing gained; <br>Babbling to silent Christs; climbing to heavens of the brain <br>Unknown, unanswering, above. <br>All these remained, words passed. The paper he'd filled, <br>Deep to the lips in bitter salt, with fury and tears, <br>No man remembered; anger and fools were stilled <br>In dust alike—and out of those roaring years, <br>What now was left of all the passion he'd spilled, <br>The fire he'd struck? A cadence or two of love, <br>A song that had stroked men's ears. <br>All wrong, all wasted. Now, in this winter snow, <br>In the black winds from Russia, and the printed mane of night, <br>Heine looked out, and gazed at the world below, <br>Thick with old chemicals, breaking far out of sight <br>With ageless tides of man—ah, granite flow, <br>Eternal, changeless flux of humanity, <br>Undying darkness and light! <br>Not treading those floods could save him—not striking stone, <br>Not damning the world could serve—only to fly, <br>Careless of men and their shouting—untouched—alone— <br>Snatched by his own gods from a falling sky, <br>And singing his own way—clutching his own, his own, <br>Blind to the world—yes, that was the road of Heine— <br>Up to the sun, solitary, a speck in the ether— <br>'Ha, now, Christ Jesus and Jehovah, I choose to die!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Kenneth+Slessor">Kenneth Slessor</a><div class=q>
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<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=429733" data-title="Heine In Paris de Kenneth Slessor" data-description="LATE: a cold smear of sunlight bathes the room; 
The gilt lime of winter, a sun grown melancholy old, 
Streams in the glass. Outside, ten thousand chimneys fume, 
Looping the weather-birds with rings of gold; 
The spires of Paris, pricked in an ir..."></div>
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