In the autumnal thicket, thinned Along its mournful arches by the wind, No longer to dead twigs but sapwood quick, Corrupting trunks that time left whole, The reeking parasites in millions stick, Like to the carnal ill that gnaws the soul Of those who at the feet of women fawn.

And h.e.l.l has blessed their countless sp.a.w.n.

And though they cannot reach the surging tops Of the unshaken columns of the Church, In spreading crops The parasites with poison smirch And mottle with strange stains the fruits The Monstrance ripens in the groves of Rome.

Trusting that ancient orchard's sainted roots, Whoever of the leprous apples eats Shall feel his faith grow darkened with a gloam That filters heresy's corroding sweets.

More hideous than saprophytes, And therefore for the sacrilege more fit, Upon the Corn and Vinestock sit Minute and miserable parasites; And o'er the Eucharist their tiny bellies, To cat and crimson it, have crept.

Their occult plague has for three hundred years Eaten the very hope of mystic ears, Wherever the Christian Harvester has slept.

And while, in the land of heavy, yellow beers, In the brewing-vat of barren exegeses Some new-found yeast for ever effervesces, The saints whose blood turns sick and rots, Waiting till a second Nero shall For their cremation light a golden carnival, Behold their bodies decked with livid spots.

GEORGES RENCY.

1875--.

WHAT USE IS SPEECH?

What use is speech, what use is it to say Words that without an echo die away, And only leave vain sadness after?

All a forest of shadow rings with laughter, If thou but move thy hand to grasp at life!

My love, the path on which we laugh with life Pales in a doubt befogged with roads that leads not thorough; The night is triumphing with stars, towards to-morrow!

In the night, thou sayest, shadowy terrors fall.

Be undeceived, there is no night: There is only multiform, enormous light, And the stars are there, for thee to be drunk withal!

THE SOURCE.

Our feet kiss where the source is glistening In the glad gloaming softening the trees.

Its waters murmur mysteries to the breeze, And we in ravishment are listening.

The leaves are paling in the twilight chill: A mystic something in the air is swimming; Our eyes with happy tears are over-br.i.m.m.i.n.g; And now the source grows timid, and is still.

The shadow makes the world so fair and frail; Wouldst thou not, like a banner on the gale, Be fain to shake thy heart out tenderly?-- But no, say nothing: silence is a veil For fervent thoughts that utterance only mars.

Let us sit hand in hand, and converse be Without a word under the peace of stars.

THE FLESH.

O carnal love, life's laughter! Under these Free Eden skies and on these blossomed leas, Thy kiss is on these budding lips of ours.

The high gra.s.s is all gold, the drunken flowers Voluptuously languish, every one, Feverish as the earth is with the sun.

My heart leaps like a beast of light, and rears And madly o'er the royal road careers, Where my desires' processional altars are.

Your flesh is quivering and to mine replies, Dearest, and gla.s.sed within your great pale eyes Is Heaven immensely blue and deep and far.

Kiss me! The hour is sweet, and pure our kiss.

The deathless boon of living sings in us.

Let us with ravishment delirious Possess each other, and in infinite bliss Be born again, knowing life's mysteries!

Fold me and fill me with your hot caress, O human G.o.ddess naked, exquisite!

I am drunken with your dazzling loveliness, O queen of grace and beauty dowered with your Young budding flesh so marvellously pure!

FERNAND SeVERIN.

1867--.

THE CHAPLET.

_Fiumina amem sylvasque inglorius_.--VIRGIL.

My forest, winter's captive, I have seen Softly awakening under warmer breezes: In bluer air my forest shimmering green Wafts down the wind the scent that in its trees is.

An olden happiness, and yet unknown: Trembles my simple heart, these things beholding With pearls of dew the burgeoned boughs are strown Trembling, this morning hour, my woods unfolding,

O Muses! if so pa.s.sionate a love Survive these leaves in songs of mine that please ye, Seek not to soften to the wrinkles of My brow the oak's or laurel's bough uneasy.

The leaves were quivering open, frail as flowers!

O! let the light bough of this foliage, shining With the cold tears of Night's imprisoned hours, For ever be mine idle brows entwining!

Re manlier brows by prouder fillets swathed!

But I would live renownless, lonely-hearted, And to those virgin haunts return unscathed Whence my child's soul hath never yet departed.

THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.

I feel my heart for ever dying, bruised By all the love it never will have used, Dying in silence, and with angels by, As simply as in cradles infants die, Infants that have no speech.

O G.o.d-given heart, Guarded by vigilant seraphim thou art!

No thing shall soil thy natal raiment! Thou, Rest thee content with no kiss on thy brow, Save of maternal summer eves, and die In thy desire and thy virginity.

Thy sacrifice hath made thee shy and proud; Thy life with very emptiness is bowed.

Made to be loved, loved thou shalt never be, Though many maids would stretch their arms to thee, As to the Prince who through their fancies rides.

Alas! and thou hast never known these brides; To thee they come not when calm evening falls, The pensive maids to whom thy longing calls; And thou art dying of thy love unused, Poor sterile heart, my heart for ever bruised!

SOVRAN STATE.

In nights impure moans one with fever stricken: "Lord! let a maiden bring me, for I sicken, Water and grapes, and quench my thirst with them.