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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=429742" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Music</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I<br>MUSIC, on the air's edge, rides alone, <br>Plumed like empastured Caesars of the sky <br>With a god's helmet; now, in the gold dye <br>Of sunlight, the iron cloak, the Tuscan stone, <br>Melt to enchanted flesh—a voice is blown <br>Down from the windy pit, like a star falling. <br>Men think it is a lost eagle calling, <br>But the fool and the lover know it for Music's cry. <br>He is running with the Valkyrs on a road of manes, <br>Darkness draws back its fur, the stars course by, <br>Fighting the windy beaks of hurricanes <br>To keep their stations in the sky— <br>Away, away! The little earth-light wanes, <br>The moon has drowned herself, cold music rings, <br>The battering of a thousand Vulcanals <br>Hammers the blood; a thousand horsemen fly <br>Belly to air, away! Now Music sings <br>Harshly, like horns of Tartars blown on high. <br>II<br>A SHIP in hell marooned; <br>He lies under the mast, <br>Caked with the sticky unguents of the sun. <br>Sluggishly at his wound, <br>The rat Pain, biting with bloody teeth <br>And broken nails, is fed at last, <br>The tale is done. <br>Let the shell of bleeding flesh remain, <br>This crusted finery is nothing worth. <br>He flings his body carelessly to Pain, <br>Meat for the earth. <br>Trumpets of godhood! The voice of Music sings, <br>Lost in the dark forest, riding out, <br>Louder and nearer, with triumphant wings, <br>Music and his eternal cavaliers— <br>Now Tristan rises with a mighty shout. <br>Nobody hears. <br>III<br>O, SILENT night, dark beach, <br>Drowning like lovers, each in each, <br>Uncharge thy musky boughs, unbend <br>Thy mouths of air, and give them speech— <br>Then, like a nest of thieves, <br>The golden, tattling leaves <br>Will sell their mask for bravoes' love, <br>Or cry their fruit to stranger Eves, <br>And voices ride <br>By foam and field <br>Of drowsy lovers, lips unsealed, <br>Blown to the lazy tide— <br>'With love we put the planets out, <br>With kissing drowned the bells, <br>And struck the clambering moon to ice; <br>Now we shall sleep and hide . . . ' <br>I sang with Nonie, side by side, <br>Sunk in a drift of tumbled laces, <br>Till Music breathed his enormous flute <br>Over our small, upturned faces. <br>IV<br>IN the pans of straw-coned country <br>This river is the solitary traveller; <br>Nothing else moves, the sky lies empty, <br>Birds there are none, and cattle not many. <br>Now it is sunlight, what is the difference? <br>Nothing. The sun is as white as moonlight. <br>Wind has buffeted flat the grasses, <br>Long, long ago; but now there is nothing, <br>Wind gone and men gone, only the water <br>Stumbling over the stones in silence— <br>Nothing but fields with roots gone rotten, <br>Paddocks unploughed and clotted marshes. <br>Even the wind that stirred them has vanished, <br>Only the river remains with its water, <br>Shambling over the straw-coned country. <br>Nothing else moves, the sky lies empty, <br>Only the river remains with its water, <br>And droughts will come . . . . <br>V<br>IN and out the countryfolk, the carriages and carnival, <br>Pastry-cooks in all directions push to barter their confections, <br>Trays of little gilded cakes, caramels in painted flakes, <br>Marzipan of various makes and macaroons of all complexions, <br>Riding on a tide of country faces. <br>Up and down the smoke and crying, <br>Girls with apple-eyes are flying, <br>Country boys in costly braces <br>Run with red, pneumatic faces; <br>Trumpets gleam, whistles scream, <br>Organs cough their coloured steam out, <br>Dogs are worming, sniffing, squirming; <br>Air-balloons and paper moons, <br>Roundabouts with curdled tunes, <br>Drowned bassoons and waggon-jacks; <br>Tents like flowers of candle-wax; <br>'Buy, buy, buy, buy! <br>Cotton ties, cakes and pies, what a size, test your eyes, hairdyes, <br>candy-shies, all a prize, penny tries, no lies, watch it rise, <br>buy, buy, buy, buy!' <br>So everybody buys. <br>Gently the doctor of magic mutters, <br>Opens his puppet-stall, <br>Pulls back the painted shutters, <br>Ruffles the golden lace. <br>Ha! The crowd flutters . . . <br>Reddened and sharp and small, <br>O, Petroushka's face! <br>VI<br>TORCHES and running fire; the flagstones drip <br>Like a black mirror, wet from killing. Smoke goes up, <br>Clouding the gilded rafter-birds, and the flying cup <br>That floats with magic wine to Konchak's lip. <br>Then the Khan claps his beard, and harps are brushed <br>Clear in the darkness; dancers' bells far off <br>Blab at their ankles. Now, from the gold trough, <br>We have dipped bowls of mare's milk; all is hushed. <br>Suddenly, dull bubbling drums uprise, grow thicker, <br>Split with a scream of metal—glazed in the flare, <br>Tartar girls rapidly whirl in storms of animal hair, <br>Spinning in islands of movement, quicker and quicker. <br>In the middle of the dance, smiling at his whim, <br>Khan Konchak rose, and left the golden hall. <br>Soon there was silent darkness over all. <br>One of the dancers was sent after him. <br>VII<br>IN the apple-country, in the apple-trees, <br>The boughs are bubbling with pink snow <br>To frost the fields. A thousand birds fall crying, <br>Sharp and sweet, like morning-stars, in seas <br>Deeper than air. A thousand blossoms blow, <br>Drops of gold blood, like flowers gone flying, <br>Drowning with foam the drowsy girls below. <br>These country-girls, in hats of straw, <br>Take kissing as a natural law, <br>Put up their cheeks, like rosy saucers, <br>Gravely on tiptoe waiting. <br>They plainly do not know the dangers <br>This practice breeds from courteous strangers, <br>Who find, on airing their politeness, <br>Such local customs captivating. <br>As for my part, under the trees, <br>I found a girl with tawny knees, <br>Pretty enough, at a hurried view. <br>We lay on blossoms, glassed with dew. <br>I didn't notice her till we kissed. <br>How pleasant, a sentimentalist! <br>VIII<br>OPEN! It is the moon knocking with fists of air <br>To break thy doors down, it is the lusty moon <br>More clamorous than hunting-cries, come tramping <br>With lanterns to uprouse thee, drown the fields <br>In drifts of crystal, waken the farms with light, <br>And lovers call to buffet the rough smoke <br>From valleys rising up—then, like the juice <br>Of Juno's apples, the rich, Indian glow <br>Shall cast them out of Time, and all be running, <br>Dancing and kissing, in this headlong, breathless moon, <br>This moon pulling at old hinges, bawling through keyholes, <br>Crying out 'Siegmund! Siegmund! Siegmund!' <br>The door flies open. <br>In this house, there is anger, in the forest, night, <br>But love is under my laughter, and under my cloak, flight. <br>O, hast thou not yet woken? <br>In night, there is bitterness, in sorrow, tears to weep, <br>But love is under my music, and under my cloak, sleep. <br>O, Lady, hast thou spoken? <br>In tears, there is remembering, in memory, no release, <br>But love is under my kissing, and under my cloak, peace. <br>O, hide beneath my cloak! <br>So shall we steal into the deeps of Spring, <br>Clasped each to each, and swim the merry tide, <br>Rounding the world, on the green floods astride, <br>Till, drowned in a bubble of flowers, too dazed to cling, <br>We're thrown up, pink and naked castaways, <br>On some old beach, where Time is put to rout, <br>And the world a buried star, not talked about— <br>So shall we daunt the gods, conceal their gaze. <br>IX<br>ONCE, at your words, I would have struck to flame <br>The ground I strode on, all the hives of blood <br>Gone bursting mad—but now, congealed and thick, <br>Anger, the wine, chokes me, hoods me with stone, <br>Clogs and corrodes me with its marish flood. <br>Suddenly, as though to metal grown, <br>I stand immovable, feel strangely sick, <br>And hear your voice far off, crying my name. <br>The clouds dissolve. Now I can see your face, <br>Immense and sweating; the room has fallen in, <br>Tiny beside it—your face, immense and sweating, <br>Blurred into mockery at the words that fill you. <br>Come, then. You wish to crush me. Let us begin; <br>Since it is obvious I shall have to kill you, <br>Have done with useless voices and regretting. <br>I want to get it over, and leave this place. <br>Then, like some god on a stone pedestal <br>Who stirs by night with unfamiliar limbs, <br>I turn to an automation, upraise <br>Half-wondering an arm I find in the air, <br>Clammy with grappled iron. Everything swims, <br>Fogged in the coughing gas-light. Blindly I stare, <br>And stab once or twice . . . stabbing in a daze . . . . <br>No need for more. He is dead, this animal. <br>Dead, dead. There was no need to strike <br>So many times, there is no need to hide— <br>It's nothing to be ashamed of nowadays. <br>He was my enemy. Now he has perished, <br>Charred in the smoking ovens of my pride. <br>Why should the splendid fury that I cherished <br>Seem now to be a cold and fruitless blaze? <br>Good God! Can't I kill my enemy if I like! <br>X<br>NOTHING grows on the stone trees <br>But lanterns, frosty gourds of colour, <br>Melting their bloody drops in water <br>Over the dark seas. <br>These peaks of stucco, smoking light, <br>These Venice-roads, the pools and channels, <br>Tunnel the night with a thousand planets, <br>Daubing their glaze of white, <br>Where belfries glitter, spire on spire, <br>Shining on men with paper faces, <br>And boats, in the glass billow fading, <br>Beetles of cloudy fire. <br>Faintly the dripping, crystal strings <br>Unlock their Spanish airs, their festival <br>Which, far away, resolves to emptiness, <br>Echoes of bitter things, <br>Far away music, cold and small, <br>Which, like a child's delight remembered, <br>Falls to mocked effigy for ever, <br>Melancholy to recall. <br>XI<br>COME in your painted coaches, friends of mine, <br>We'll keep the stars night-company with wine, <br>Morning shall find us bending to the flute, <br>And daybreak mock us at our candleshine. <br>Pile all thy jewelled berries in a heap, <br>Almonds and musk and sweetmeats, all for thee— <br>We'll rest on silk a thousand cushions deep, <br>Wake up and shake the cassia-tree, <br>And eat a sticky cake, and sleep, <br>And slee—.. <br>XII<br>Look up! Thou hast a shining Guest <br>Whose body in the dews hath lain, <br>His face like a strange wafer pressed <br>Secret and starry, at thy pane; <br>And he shall sing with human tongue <br>Old music men have never sung <br>Since Orpheus on earth was young, <br>And shall not sing again. <br>But life and all its lies of stone <br>Shall crack to fumes and disappear, <br>Thy little golden shells be blown <br>Like stars in water, far and near, <br>And thou shalt wake behind the Glass, <br>In stone dissolved, and phantom brass— <br>O, deaf! The bells of Music pass, <br>Not can, but darest, thou hear!</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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MUSIC, on the air's edge, rides alone, 
Plumed like empastured Caesars of the sky 
With a god's helmet; now, in the gold dye 
Of sunlight, the iron cloak, the Tuscan stone, 
Melt to enchanted flesh—a voice is blown 
Down from the windy pit, li..."></div>
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