Come, my poor heart, come, old friend true and tried, Repaint your triumph's arches, raised anew; Smoke tinsel altars with stale incense; strew Flowers before the chasm, gaping wide; Come, my poor heart, come, old friend true and tried.
Cantor revivified, sing God your hymn; Hoarse organ-pipes, intone Te Deums proud; Make up your aging face, youth wrinkle-browed; Bedeck yourself in gold, wall yellow-dim; Cantor revivified, sing God your hymn.
Ring, bells; peal, chimes; peal, ring, bells large and small! My hopeless dream takes shape: for Happiness-- Here, now--lies clutched, embraced in my caress; Winged Voyager, who shuns Man's every call; --Ring, bells; peal, chimes; peal, ring, bells large and small!
Happiness once walked side by side with me; But DOOM knows no reprieve, there's no mistaking: The worm is in the fruit; in dreaming, waking; In loving, mourning. And so must it be. --Happiness once walked side by side with me.
Your soul is like a landscape fantasy, Where masks and Bergamasks, in charming wise, Strum lutes and dance, just a bit sad to be Hidden beneath their fanciful disguise.
Singing in minor mode of life's largesse And all-victorious love, they yet seem quite Reluctant to believe their happiness, And their song mingles with the pale moonlight,
The calm, pale moonlight, whose sad beauty, beaming, Sets the birds softly dreaming in the trees, And makes the marbled fountains, gushing, streaming-- Slender jet-fountains--sob their ecstasies.
Rimbaud Drunken Morning Read by Patti Smith
From "A Season in Hell"
A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing.
One night, I sat Beauty down on my lap.—And I found her galling.—And I roughed her up.
I armed myself against justice.
I ran away. O witches, O misery, O hatred, my treasure's been turned over to you!
I managed to make every trace of human hope vanish from my mind. I pounced on every joy like a ferocious animal eager to strangle it.
I called for executioners so that, while dying, I could bite the butts of their rifles. I called for plagues to choke me with sand, with blood. Bad luck was my god. I stretched out in the muck. I dried myself in the air of crime. And I played tricks on insanity.
And Spring brought me the frightening laugh of the idiot.
So, just recently, when I found myself on the brink of the final squawk! it dawned on me to look again for the key to that ancient party where I might find my appetite once more.
Charity is that key.—This inspiration proves I was dreaming!
"You'll always be a hyena etc. . . ," yells the devil, who'd crowned me with such pretty poppies. "Deserve death with all your appetites, your selfishness, and all the capital sins!"
Ah! I've been through too much:-But, sweet Satan, I beg of you, a less blazing eye! and while waiting for the new little cowardly gestures yet to come, since you like an absence of descriptive or didactic skills in a writer, let me rip out these few ghastly pages from my notebook of the damned."
The Star Has Wept Rose Color
The star has wept rose-colour in the heart of your ears, The infinite rolled white from your nape to the small of your back The sea has broken russet at your vermilion nipples, And Man bled black at your royal side.