 | Verses by W. H. Mallock |  |
155
FROM BEAUDELAIRE
The breeze-stirred hour draws on, when as its slim stalk swings,
Each flower sends up its soul like censer swung at prayer.
The wandering sounds and scents wheel through the evening air,
A languorous dance that forms and floats on wayward wings.
Each flower sends up its soul like censer swung at prayer,
Wails like a heart in pain the lute through all its strings,
Moves to its sound the dance that wheels on languorous wings;
Like some great lighted shrine the heavens are sad and fair.
Each flower sends up its soul like censer swung at prayer.
The wandering sounds and scents wheel through the evening air,
A languorous dance that forms and floats on wayward wings.
Each flower sends up its soul like censer swung at prayer,
Wails like a heart in pain the lute through all its strings,
Moves to its sound the dance that wheels on languorous wings;
Like some great lighted shrine the heavens are sad and fair.
156
Wails like a heart in pain the lute through all its strings,
A heart that hates the void circling it everywhere.
Like some great lighted shrine the heavens are sad and fair,
The sun sinks dim with blood staining his wounded wings.
A heart that hates the void circling it everywhere,
Culls from the past a store of loved and shining things.
The sun sinks dim with blood staining his wounded wings,
In me your memory shines—a monstrance raised at prayer.
A heart that hates the void circling it everywhere.
Like some great lighted shrine the heavens are sad and fair,
The sun sinks dim with blood staining his wounded wings.
A heart that hates the void circling it everywhere,
Culls from the past a store of loved and shining things.
The sun sinks dim with blood staining his wounded wings,
In me your memory shines—a monstrance raised at prayer.
| Verses by W. H. Mallock | |