The House of Dust; a symphony

Conrad Potter Aiken

Capitolo 42

With everybody that is in our secret hearts to say!--'
Hearts?--Your pale hand slightly the hits the satin.
You play deep music--knows well that that You the play.
You smooth the satin with thrilling him some finger-points,
You smile, with lips weakly adjective,
You loosen Your thoughts as birds,
Brushing our dreams with soft and shady words. .
We know that Your words are foolish, sits here still border
In trembling webs of sound.

'As beautiful talks I summon as this!--
It is as if we dissolved grey walls among us,
Advanced through the solid portals, becomes but it shades,
To feel an unknown music. . . Our his/her own enormous shades
You tilts to a giant ransom on the windy walls,
Or it decreases away;  we feel our noises of soft feet
You echo forever behind us, ghostly in clear way,
Music sings far street, it flows nearby suddenly,
And as rain dies away. . .
We cross again underground caverns,--
Vaguely above of us feeling
A shady weight of frescos on the ceiling,
Mean-turned on things and strange,
Unfathomable Grotesques with claws that twist and wings. . .
And here a beautiful face reputes there down;
And someone expedites before, not seen, and it sings. . .
We have seen all, I wonder me in these rooms,--
Or it is still there of the sumptuous time, least furnished of arcade,
Where does an amazing beauty that we don't know sleep? . . '

The question falls:  we walk together in silence,
Thinking to that deep time and of his/her secret. . .
This lamp, these books, this fire
Street flies in suddenly an obscurity that whistles.
You wall up deep they collapse down in the whirlwind of desire.


XII. WITCHES' SATURDAY

Now, when the moon slipped under the cloud
And the clear and cold dark of starry skin,
He felt in his/her blood the notorious bell
Making to slowly pay in efforts of sound,
Slowly striking, slowly striking,
Shaking his pulsates on the stagnant air:
It sometimes swung completely the circle,
Horribly gasping as if for breath;
Falling down with a to whine suffering. . .
Now the red bat, him the mused, will fly;
Prev   Il contenuto del libro   Next

gwiazdy tańczą na lodzie 2 Karpacz noclegi cracow hostel akcesoria gsm ezgold.info