Collected Works (Vol. III)

120 RODIN IN RIME ICARE,1 ICARUS cries: “ My love is robed in light And splendour of the summits of the sun. Wing, O my soul, thy plumed caparison Through ninety million miles of space beyond sight ! Utmost imagination’s eagle-flight Out-soar!” But he, by his own force un- done, I1is peacock pinions molten one by one, Falls to black earth through the impassive night. Lo! from uprushing earth arises love Ardent and secret, scented with the night, Amorous, ready. Sing the awakening bliss That catches him, from the inane above Hurled—nay, drawn down! What utter- most delight Dawns inthat death! Icarus and Gaia kiss. LA FORTUNE. ‘‘HfarL, Tyche ! From the Amalthean horn Pour forth the store of love! I lowly bend Before thee: I invoke thee at the end When other gods are fallen and put to scorn. Thy foot is to my lips ; my sighs unborn Rise, touch and curl about thy heart; they spend Pitiful love. Lovelier pity, descend And bring me luck who am lonely and for- lorn.” . Fortune sits idle on her throne. The scent Of honeyed incense wreathes her lips with pleasure. For pure delight of luxury she turns, Smooth in her goddess rapture. So she spurns And crushes the pale suppliant. Softly bent, Her body laughs in ecstasy of leisure. 1 Called ‘‘ Fille d'Icare’’ by the distinguished anatomists, priceless idiots, and pragmatical precisians, who see nothing but a block of marble in this most spiritual of Rodin's master- pieces. PAOLO ET FRANCESCA PAOLO ignites, Francesca is consumed. Loosened she lies, and breathes great gasps of love ; He, like an hunter, hungers, leaps above, Attains, exults, despairs. This love is doomed, Were there no hell. In granite walls en- tombed Lies the true spirit and the soul thereof. The body is here—yet is it not enough, These litanies unchanted, unperfumed? Live in the shuddering marble they remain : Here is the infinite credo of pure pain. Here let life’s agony take hold enough Of all that lives: let partial tears for them Wake knowledge, brain-dissolving diadem Of white-hot woe upon the brows of love ! LES DEUX GENIES. Goop bends and breathes into the rosy shell Of peace and perfume, love in idleness, Of pure cold raptures, hymns the mystic stress, Imagining’s reiterate miracle. Evil breathes, bending, the reverberate spell Conjuring ghosts of the insane address Of agony lurid in the damned caress, Exulting tortures of the heart of hell. The maiden sits and listens, smiles. Her breath Is easy ; over her bowed head fall deep Glowing cascades of hair; she combs her hair With subtle ecstasy, electric sweep Of unimaginable joy ; let life and death Pass; she will comb, and comb, and will not care.