(All shudder)
IRENE (to MAX): You did not dance with them?
MAX (very slowly again): No, we did not, but we saw all those three young men.
CARL (turning pale and shuddering): Yes, the story must be literally true. We saw the young men you mentioned; and several ladies besides, also a prince. (Turning to COUNT ACHSELMANNSTEIN) Now perhaps you will believe us. I never believed in that sort of thing myself. But what I say and have said is a fact.
COUNT ACHSELMANNSTEIN (also pale and shuddering): Yes, it certainly is a very odd story!
IRENE (throwing her arms around MAX): Oh, Max! So you did not dance with them! You were only just saved. (Faints)
CARL (trying to recover himself): No, we prefer dancing with Irene and Carlotta to dancing with phantoms.
I HAD a vision of Love crucified—
Love crucified in feet, in hands, and heart;
I lookèd on the piercèd side of Love,
I saw a wound upon the heart of Love,
From which flowed blood and roses:—
Wounded hast thou mine heart, my love, mine own;
Seest thou my life-blood trickling drop by drop,
Till the last vital drop hath flowed therefrom?—
But with my blood there are commingled roses—
For are not these my songs? as roses
Let them be planted on my grave.
THAT pain—that galling pain,
That rends the heart in twain;
Oh, that intolerable pain!
That pain which is above
All pains, that pain of broken love;
That pain of love self-slain;
To love and not be loved again!
Deserted—forsaken—alone,
My love, my all, mine own,
For me the world is made desolate;
Ever wailing I wait,
At the threshold of the gate.
There are many fairer by far than you,
There are fairer women, and youths more fair,
With bright, soft eyes, and curious hair,
But I found them all less fair than you:—
And you—what do you care?
The bitter cup you gave to me,
Unto the dregs I quaff,
And you stand by and laugh:
And all men laugh too, seeing me;
You laugh, all laugh, I laugh,
Whilst from my heart a secret flood
Flows on for ever, of tears, of blood.
THE fallen petals of the rose,
The fallen feathers of the dove,
And the time of swiftly-falling snows,
Are strewn on the tomb of Love.
A shroud of soft and silent snows
Covers his body—he is dead:
The fallen petals of the rose,
Are strewn about his head.
And yet Love died before the rose,
Long ere the snows began to fall;
And now, the soft white silent snows
Become his funeral pall.
WHERE lie buried the ruins of Sodom,
In the depths of the dead salt sea,
On the banks of the Dead Sea waters,
There groweth a wondrous tree;
Well waxen with leaves and branches,
But canker lies at the root,
And thereon are strange fair apples,
And this is the ‘Dead Sea fruit.’
Whoso shall eat of these apples,
Which appear so fair and sweet,
In his mouth they shall turn to ashes;
Ah! woe to him that shall eat.
Yea, woe to him that touches
E’en this forbidden fruit,
Of the tree so fair and goodly,
But with canker at the root.
Ask not, if thou know'st not already,
What manner of tree this be
Which grows on the ruins of Sodom,
On the banks of the dead salt sea.
I DREAMED a dreadful dream, almost
Too terrible to tell;
I dreamed that you and I, my love,
Together were in Hell.
I dreamed in all eternity
We two together were;
Condemned each other's face and limbs
In hate and rage to tear.
I dreamed your kisses keen, my love,
Bit my flesh through and through;
I tasted the salt taste of blood,
My love, as I kissed you.
I dreamed your soft warm limbs, my love,
Burnt with Hell's furious fire;
And demons laughed, and said, This is
The end of your desire.
That laugh—you never saw that laugh,
You never heard its tone:
Thy very presence maddens me,
Yet leave me not alone.
Think'st thou they weep with many tears,
Deem'st thou their brows are knit with pain?
Ah no! far worse than that, they laugh—
Their laugh is hollow and insane.
Almost too horrible to hear,
Too terrible to tell,
The song about the unwept tear,
And the laughter heard in Hell.
SLEEP on, my poor child, sleep;
Why must thou wake again?
Thou are but born into a world of woe,
Of agony unending, deep,
Of long-protracted pain.
A faint light is thrown on thine eyes,
Alas! thy right to joy is plain:
I see thou dream'st of Paradise,
And thou wilt only wake to pain.
Why must thou wake again?
Wert thou not born with tears and travail?
Thy first cry was a wail;
Life is a mystery, strange and sad,
A wondrous riddle to unravel,
But who shall lift the vail?
Sleep on, my poor child, sleep,
Naught is so sweet as sleep;
Not all the joys of love,
The tears that lovers weep;
Amber and coral from the deep,
Are not so sweet as sleep.
‘Sleep on, my poor child, sleep;
Sleep on,’ the mother said,
‘I will sit here and weep.’
She looked on her child, asleep,
And saw the child was dead:
‘’Tis well,’ the mother said.
WOULD you ask of weeping children
A reason why they cry?
They weep, they cannot help it,
They cannot tell you why.
Perhaps they have some forecast
Of strange unknown desire,
That burns their dawning spirits
With dim, uncertain fire.
Perhaps they have felt some echo,
Of the world's unending woes,
The everlasting struggle,
Of tyrants and of foes.
Perhaps they have some remembrance
Of brighter, bygone things,
The music of angels’ voices,
The rustling of angels’ wings—
Some faint and weird remembrance
Of faces bright and fair,
And see but the spirit of evil,
Who reigneth everywhere.
Ye dwellers in the valley,
Where is that mystic hill,
That the dying see already,
And the child rememb'reth still?
Question.
TWO that sleep, and one that waketh,
Biding the coming of the day,
Till the glorious morning breaketh,
And the shadows flee away.
When the glorious morn be broken,
And the shadows fled away,
Shall then the other twain be woken,
To greet the dawning of the day?
Answer.
Perhaps the day will never break,
Nor the dark shadows flee away,
’Ti
s hardly worth our while to wake,
Biding the coming of the day.
To sleep is better than to wake,
To die is better than to sleep;
Perhaps the day will never break,
’Tis not worth while our watch to keep.
Remember me in after years,
Who loved thee long ago;
Thou wilt find none more fond,
I think, in this bitter world of woe.
And if some maiden beautiful
Become thy love and joy,
Think on that passionate male heart
That loved thee when a boy.
THESE wild effusions of a stricken soul,
Life of my life, I dedicate to thee.
I think I saw thee bodily but once,
Yet in my spirit ever, and sometimes
Embodied in the vision of a dream:—
Strange sounds of strange and moving melody,
The passion of the viol's quivering string,
The high sublimity of organ tones,
Remind me of thee strangely.
I almost think I knew thee long ago,
When present was not present, past not past,
And in a multitude of earthly forms
I sought to see thy beauty visible.
All that is beautiful upon the earth
Is but an image, though so faint, of thee.
Lo, I have sought thee—I have not found thee.
I DECKED mine altar with faded flowers,
Because I was sad at heart, you see,
And cared no more, what the passing hours
In going and coming might bring to me—
I said, ‘Alas, for the lingering hours
Shall not bring ought of delight to me.’
And yet I sighed for the faded flowers,
Because my flowers were dead, you see,
Sighed for the flowers and the passing hours
Because I was sick unto death, you see—
Sick unto death of the desolate hours
Which came and went so wearily—
And then I looked on my faded flowers
And sat down and wept for memory.
‘Then Death bethought him of his beautiful garden where the red and white roses bloom.’
Hans Christian Andersen
I HAVE longed for thy beautiful garden,
The mansion of twilight rooms,
The region of placid faces,
And flowers, that grow from tombs.
I have longed for thy beautiful garden,
With the longing of great desire—
Who have walked in barren places,
Till my feet are shod with fire.
I have longed for thy beautiful garden,
Whose raiment is woven with sighs,
And a veil of great lamentation
Is shed as a mist on thine eyes.
I have longed for thy beautiful garden,
And thy nuptial winding-sheet,
For thy face, ah! tender lover,
Is gentle and wellnigh sweet.
WITH tremulous feet advancing,
That hardly touch the ground,
Fair forms embracing, dancing,
And lightly whirling round,
With the sounds of joy and gladness,
As a cloud that the moonlight sears
Is mingled a tone of sadness
From a far-off region of tears.
They tread the mystic measure
In garments of beauty clad,
Yet even in their pleasure
There is something passing sad;
None knows what woes come after,
And none can say where he steers,
And the echo of their laughter
Is wet with the dew of tears.
Ah, look upon their faces,
Seen passion-pale through the glare,
Their close and wild embraces,
Hot lips and flaming hair—
One would say some bitter madness
Were shed on their tender years,
Unsoftened into sadness
At the welcome well-spring of tears.
Deliriously turning
As a flame in the fretful fire,
With the blood in their faces burning
With the greatness of their desire—
Who knows what woes come after,
In a twilight of hopes and fears?
‘For the roots of the tree of laughter
Are close to the well of tears.’
THE rain fell fast, the wind was wild,
I saw the image of my child
As in a vision of the night,
At the first grey streak of the morning light.
‘Thy face is somewhat pale,’ I said,
‘And thine hair is tangled about thine head;’
‘The wind is wild; no wonder then
My hair is tangled,’ he said again.
‘But from thine head unto thy feet
Thy form is wrapped in a long white sheet;’
‘My clothes were wet through with the rain,
I put on this sheet till they dry again.’
‘Come hither, darling, and I will fold
Thee to mine heart, for thy hands are cold;’
‘No wonder my hands are cold,’ he said,
‘For very cold are the hands of the dead.’
IT is so sad because it is so sweet, you see,
The white rose is so pale, almost too pale,
So light and slight, fleetingly fair and frail,
That one would surely say its sweet shall fail
When the wild withering winds shall rive it ruthlessly—
So we must needs weep hearing that moving melody.
It is so sweet, because it is so sad, you see,
As the grey grave-stone, where the green grass grows,
Or the sad seashore where the full flood flows,
Or the winds withering the wild white rose,
With every painful petal dropping droopingly—
Why doth the white rose wreath itself around that melody?
All sweet things have some sad in them, you see,
And all sad things some sweet, and this is so
Because Love liveth in a world of woe
Made miserable by his most mighty foe,
Who dwells in the dark depths, laughing exultingly—
And this is the mad meaning of that moving melody.
COVER thy face, for there are fearful things
That flicker through the visions of the night,
Causing the soul to shiver with affright,
The dreadful images the Dream-god brings;—
I saw a dark form flying without wings,
Through falling darkness severed with strange light,
Fleeing away in wild and fearful flight,
And yet for ever running round in rings.
And as I wondered why that form fled so,
I saw another form with visage dread
Following fast upon the form that fled,
A dagger in his hand, a bitter foe—
Alas, my love, the flying form was thine,
The face of the pursuer, that was mine!
AH, love, I dreamed of thee last night,
Of strange lips kissing me,
With subtle penetrating pain—
A moon veil shrouded thee
(I shudder, when I think of this,
That a moon veil shrouded thee);
Thine eyes had in them all the light
Of the moonlight on the sea.
Thine eyes are beautiful and soft,
As the eyes of Seraphim,—
Ah, limpid liquid lustrous eyes,
Sad eyes half bright, half dim,
Half without light, half brighter bright,
Than the eyes of Seraphim.
That strange magnetic glance, that gleams
From those mystic eyes of vair,
That face so brilliantly pale,
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And yet withal so fair,—
Love-pale and passion-pale, and yet,
So marvellously fair,—
That countenance corpse-like refined,
And subtle coloured hair.
Thy slender limbs that seem to burn
Thy vesture through with fire,
That serpentine electric form
Of Kings and Things Page 25