Pokrewne

Start
Anne McAllister [New York 06] Nathan's Child (epub)
C L Scholey [New World 06] Guardian [WCP] (epub)
Cole Connelly [Alive and Figh New in Town (epub)
Cora Lee Gill New Game In Town
Carl, Verena Der Himmel ueber New York
Bergauf, Georg Mord im New Forest
Colbert The New Bible Cure For Sleep Di
Brave New World Aldous Huxley
Best New Horror Stephen Jones
A New Beginning Mary Suzanne

[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.His true Penelope was Flaubert,He fished by obstinate isles;Observed the elegance of Circe’s hairRather than the mottoes on sun-dials.Unaffected by “the march of events,”He passed from men’s memory in l’an trentuniesmeDe son eage; the case presentsNo adjunct to the Muses’ diadem.IIThe age demanded an imageOf its accelerated grimace,Something for the modern stage,Not, at any rate, an Attic grace;Not, not certainly, the obscure reveriesOf the inward gaze;Better mendacitiesThan the classics in paraphrase!The “age demanded” chiefly a mould in plaster,Made with no loss of time,A prose kinema, not, not assuredly, alabasterOr the “sculpture” of rhyme.IIIThe tea-rose tea-gown, etc.Supplants the mousseline of Cos,The pianola “replaces”Sappho’s barbitos.Christ follows Dionysus,Phallic and ambrosialMade way for macerations;Caliban casts out Ariel.All things are a flowing,Sage Heracleitus says;But a tawdry cheapnessShall outlast our days.Even the Christian beautyDefects—after Samothrace;Decreed in the market place.Faun’s flesh is not to us,Nor the saint’s vision.We have the press for wafer;Franchise for circumcision.All men, in law, are equals.Free of Pisistratus,We choose a knave or an eunuchTo rule over us.O bright Apollo,What god, man, or heroShall I place a tin wreath upon!IVThese fought in any case,and some believing,pro domo, in any case …Some quick to arm,some for adventure,some from fear of weakness,some from fear of censure,some for love of slaughter, in imagination,learning later …some in fear, learning love of slaughter;Died some, pro patria,non “dulce” non “et decor” …walked eye-deep in hellbelieving in old men’s lies, then unbelievingcame home, home to a lie,home to many deceits,home to old lies and new infamy;usury age-old and age-thickand liars in public places.Daring as never before, wastage as never before.Young blood and high blood,fair cheeks, and fine bodies;fortitude as never beforefrankness as never before,disillusions as never told in the old days,hysterias, trench confessions,laughter out of dead bellies.VThere died a myriad,And of the best, among them,For an old bitch gone in the teeth,For a botched civilization,Charm, smiling at the good mouth,Quick eyes gone under earth’s lid,For two gross of broken statues,For a few thousand battered books.YEUX GLAUQUESGladstone was still respected,When John Ruskin produced“King’s Treasuries”; SwinburneAnd Rossetti still abused.Fœtid Buchanan lifted up his voiceWhen that faun’s head of hersBecame a pastime forPainters and adulterers.The Burne-Jones cartonsHave preserved her eyes;Still, at the Tate, they teachCophetua to rhapsodize;Thin like brook-water,With a vacant gaze.The English Rubaiyat was still-bornIn those days.The thin, clear gaze, the sameStill darts out faun-like from the half-ruin’d face,Questing and passive….“Ah, poor Jenny’s case” …Bewildered that a worldShows no surpriseAt her last maquero’sAdulteries.“SIENA MI FE’; DISFECEMI MAREMMA”Among the pickled foetuses and bottled bones,Engaged in perfecting the catalogue,I found the last scion of theSenatorial families of Strasbourg, Monsieur Verog.For two hours he talked of Galliffet;Of Dowson; of the Rhymers’ Club;Told me how Johnson (Lionel) diedBy falling from a high stool in a pub …But showed no trace of alcoholAt the autopsy, privately performed—Tissue preserved—the pure mindArose toward Newman as the whiskey warmed.Dowson found harlots cheaper than hotels;Headlam for uplift; Image impartially imbuedWith raptures for Bacchus, Terpsichore and the Church.So spoke the author of “The Dorian Mood,”M.Verog, out of step with the decade,Detached from his contemporaries,Neglected by the young,Because of these reveries.BRENNBAUMThe sky-like limpid eyes,The circular infant’s face,The stiffness from spats to collarNever relaxing into grace;The heavy memories of Horeb, Sinai and the forty years,Showed only when the daylight fellLevel across the faceOf Brennbaum “The Impeccable.”MR.NIXONIn the cream gilded cabin of his steam yachtMr.Nixon advised me kindly, to advance with fewerDangers of delay.“ConsiderCarefully the reviewer.I was as poor as you are;When I began I got, of course,Advance on royalties, fifty at first,” said Mr.Nixon,“Follow me, and take a column,Even if you have to work free.Butter reviewers.From fifty to three hundredI rose in eighteen months;The hardest nut I had to crackWas Dr.Dundas.I never mentioned a man but with the viewOf selling my own works.The tip’s a good one, as for literatureIt gives no man a sinecure.And no one knows, at sight, a masterpiece.And give up verse, my boy,There’s nothing in it.”.Likewise a friend of Blougram’s once advised me:Don’t kick against the pricks,Accept opinion.The “Nineties” tried your gameAnd died, there’s nothing in it.XBeneath the sagging roofThe stylist has taken shelter,Unpaid, uncelebrated,At last from the world’s welterNature receives him;With a placid and uneducated mistressHe exercises his talentsAnd the soil meets his distress.The haven from sophistications and contentionsLeaks through its thatch;He offers succulent cooking;The door has a creaking latch.XI“Conservatrix of Milésien”Habits of mind and feeling,Possibly.But in EalingWith the most bank-clerkly of Englishmen?No, “Milesian” is an exaggeration.No instinct has survived in herOlder than those her grandmotherTold her would fit her station.XII“Daphne with her thighs in barkStretches toward me her leafy hands,”—Subjectively.In the stuffed-satin drawing-roomI await The Lady Valentine’s commands,Knowing my coat has never beenOf precisely the fashionTo stimulate, in her,A durable passion;Doubtful, somewhat, of the valueOf well-gowned approbationOf literary effort,But never of The Lady Valentine’s vocation:Poetry, her border of ideas,The edge, uncertain, but a means of blendingWith other strataWhere the lower and higher have ending;A hook to catch the Lady Jane’s attention,A modulation toward the theatre,Also, in the case of revolution,A possible friend and comforter [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]