sanction, then the drop of sound.
Quickly part to the cavern ever warm
deep from the march, body to body bound,
descend (my soul) out of dismantling storm
into the darkness where the world is made.
. . Come back to the bright air. Love is multiform.
Heartmating hesitating unafraid
although incredulous, she seemed to fill
the lilac shadow with light wherein she played,
whom sorry childhood had made sit quite still,
an orphan silence, unregarded sheen,
listening for any small soft note, not hopeful:
caricature; as once a maiden Queen,
flowering power comeliness kindness grace,
shattered her mirror, wept, would not be seen.
These pities moved. Also above her face
serious or flushed, swayed her fire-gold
not earthly hair, now moonless to unlace,
resisted flame, now in a sun more cold
great shells to whorl about each secret ear,
mysterious histories, white shores, unfold.
New musics! One the music that we hear,
this is the music which the masters make
out of their minds, profound solemn & clear.
And then the other music, in whose sake
all men perceive a gladness but we are drawn
less for that joy than utterly to take
our trial, naked in the music’s vision,
the flowing ceremony of trouble and light,
all Loves becoming, none to flag upon.
Such Mozart made,—an ear so delicate
he fainted at a trumpet-call, a child
so delicate. So merciful that sight,
so stern, we follow rapt who ran a-wild.
Marriage is the second music, and thereof
we hear what we can bear, faithful & mild.
Therefore the streaming torches in the grove
through dark or bright, swiftly & now more near
cherish a festival of anxious love.
Dance for this music, Mistress to music dear,
more, that storm worries the disordered wood
grieving the midnight of my thirtieth year
and only the trial of our music should
still this irresolute air, only your voice
spelling the tempest may compel our good:
Sigh then beyond my song: whirl & rejoice!
The Nervous Songs
YOUNG WOMAN’S SONG
The round and smooth, my body in my bath,
If someone else would like it too.—I did,
I wanted T. to think ‘How interesting’
Although I hate his voice and face, hate both.
I hate this something like a bobbing cork
Not going. I want something to hang to.—
A fierce wind roaring high up in the bare
Branches of trees,—I suppose it was lust
But it was holy and awful. All day I thought
I am a bobbing cork, irresponsible child
Loose on the waters.—What have you done at last?
A little work, a little vague chat.
I want that £3.10 hat terribly.—
What I am looking for ( I am ) may be
Happening in the gaps of what I know.
The full moon does go with you as yóu go.
Where am I going? I am not afraid . .
Only I would be lifted lost in the flood.
THE SONG OF THE DEMENTED PRIEST
I put those things there.—See them burn.
The emerald the azure and the gold
Hiss and crack, the blues & greens of the world
As if I were tired. Someone interferes
Everywhere with me. The clouds, the clouds are torn
In ways I do not understand or love.
Licking my long lips, I looked upon God
And he flamed and he was friendlier
Than you were, and he was small. Showing me
Serpents and thin flowers; these were cold.
Dominion waved & glittered like the flare
From ice under a small sun. I wonder.
Afterward the violent and formal dancers
Came out, shaking their pithless heads.
I would instruct them but I cannot now,—
Because of the elements. They rise and move,
I nod a dance and they dance in the rain
In my red coat. I am the king of the dead.
A PROFESSOR’S SONG
(. . rabid or dog-dull.) Let me tell you how
The Eighteenth Century couplet ended. Now
Tell me. Troll me the sources of that Song—
Assigned last week—by Blake. Come, come along,
Gentlemen. (Fidget and huddle, do. Squint soon.)
I want to end these fellows all by noon.
‘That deep romantic chasm’—an early use;
The word is from the French, by our abuse
Fished out a
Quickly part to the cavern ever warm
deep from the march, body to body bound,
descend (my soul) out of dismantling storm
into the darkness where the world is made.
. . Come back to the bright air. Love is multiform.
Heartmating hesitating unafraid
although incredulous, she seemed to fill
the lilac shadow with light wherein she played,
whom sorry childhood had made sit quite still,
an orphan silence, unregarded sheen,
listening for any small soft note, not hopeful:
caricature; as once a maiden Queen,
flowering power comeliness kindness grace,
shattered her mirror, wept, would not be seen.
These pities moved. Also above her face
serious or flushed, swayed her fire-gold
not earthly hair, now moonless to unlace,
resisted flame, now in a sun more cold
great shells to whorl about each secret ear,
mysterious histories, white shores, unfold.
New musics! One the music that we hear,
this is the music which the masters make
out of their minds, profound solemn & clear.
And then the other music, in whose sake
all men perceive a gladness but we are drawn
less for that joy than utterly to take
our trial, naked in the music’s vision,
the flowing ceremony of trouble and light,
all Loves becoming, none to flag upon.
Such Mozart made,—an ear so delicate
he fainted at a trumpet-call, a child
so delicate. So merciful that sight,
so stern, we follow rapt who ran a-wild.
Marriage is the second music, and thereof
we hear what we can bear, faithful & mild.
Therefore the streaming torches in the grove
through dark or bright, swiftly & now more near
cherish a festival of anxious love.
Dance for this music, Mistress to music dear,
more, that storm worries the disordered wood
grieving the midnight of my thirtieth year
and only the trial of our music should
still this irresolute air, only your voice
spelling the tempest may compel our good:
Sigh then beyond my song: whirl & rejoice!
The Nervous Songs
YOUNG WOMAN’S SONG
The round and smooth, my body in my bath,
If someone else would like it too.—I did,
I wanted T. to think ‘How interesting’
Although I hate his voice and face, hate both.
I hate this something like a bobbing cork
Not going. I want something to hang to.—
A fierce wind roaring high up in the bare
Branches of trees,—I suppose it was lust
But it was holy and awful. All day I thought
I am a bobbing cork, irresponsible child
Loose on the waters.—What have you done at last?
A little work, a little vague chat.
I want that £3.10 hat terribly.—
What I am looking for ( I am ) may be
Happening in the gaps of what I know.
The full moon does go with you as yóu go.
Where am I going? I am not afraid . .
Only I would be lifted lost in the flood.
THE SONG OF THE DEMENTED PRIEST
I put those things there.—See them burn.
The emerald the azure and the gold
Hiss and crack, the blues & greens of the world
As if I were tired. Someone interferes
Everywhere with me. The clouds, the clouds are torn
In ways I do not understand or love.
Licking my long lips, I looked upon God
And he flamed and he was friendlier
Than you were, and he was small. Showing me
Serpents and thin flowers; these were cold.
Dominion waved & glittered like the flare
From ice under a small sun. I wonder.
Afterward the violent and formal dancers
Came out, shaking their pithless heads.
I would instruct them but I cannot now,—
Because of the elements. They rise and move,
I nod a dance and they dance in the rain
In my red coat. I am the king of the dead.
A PROFESSOR’S SONG
(. . rabid or dog-dull.) Let me tell you how
The Eighteenth Century couplet ended. Now
Tell me. Troll me the sources of that Song—
Assigned last week—by Blake. Come, come along,
Gentlemen. (Fidget and huddle, do. Squint soon.)
I want to end these fellows all by noon.
‘That deep romantic chasm’—an early use;
The word is from the French, by our abuse
Fished out a
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