Page:The Soul of a Century.djvu/155



I know my skepsis is severe And that my mind is proud, I fear. My mean, blaspheming ridicule Poisons pure ecstasy’s deep pool.

I dream by day and wake by night, My views are paradoxic light, I turn to hate my love’s wild trends, And quickly loathe my nearest friends.

I little care what my neighbor says, If good or bad he finds my ways. In time I’ll mow the field I seed For obsequies I will not plead.

Too soon it sang to me of love’s mad wiles, Of wasted nights, of maidens’ warm caresses, Too soon its promising and tempting smiles Tired my body with extreme excesses.

Vainly I stretched my arms and yearned For remnants off the table laden low, Against my breast, where carnal passions burned, I only grasped the phantom’s foggy snow.

Oh, the endless nights of intermittent waking, Ere through the window creeps the morning light, When the body feels a thirst that knows no slaking, And bluntly bleeds in the dark enfolding night.

I hold a cup within my palm, A foaming cup that overran; I hold a cup within my palm, That is waiting for the lips of man.

That is waiting if its wine O’er arid furrows will find its way, Or if on languid blooms elsewhere Its droplets it shall hang some day.