That bliss should die of too much bliss?

Love is a fair and fragile flower
Which Youth must needs, poor foolish boy,
Pluck greedily....Within the hour
He weeps to see his withered joy.

Musings

Be calmer, O my Grief, be quieter:
The dusk you craved enfolds us; everywhere
The twilight veil of blue-grey gossamer
Falls, bringing peace to some, to others care.

While thralls of Pleasure, that most merciless
Of tyrants, hasten to his board (although
His wine is gall, and his fruit, bitterness),
Come with me, O my Grief, and let us go

Far from them. See the bygone years that throng
Heaven's balconies; see smiling Sorrow, strong
In fortitude, rise from the waters; see

The dying sun, low sinking, disappear
Beyond the verge. The rustling mystery
Of night approaches--hear, beloved, hear.

_From the French of Baudelaire_

The Poet

Where the flowers are most tall,
Heedless of his mother's call,
Wooden sword in his hand
Tightly clasped, I see him stand.

He is pondering with eyes
Full of four-year-old surmise
Two great hollyhocks that sway
This way, that way,
Till they almost touch his cheek.
Queer, solemn souls they seem,
Spell-bound, lost in dream,
Always just about to speak...

Then he with thirsty eyes
Drinks the intoxicating skies.
Done with earth, he bestrides
The galloping white horses, rides
The blue valleys and the red hills
Of sunset, and his pocket fills
With golden apples. Days pass,
Long full days...

The grass
Suddenly stirs, and he plunges
Into the perilous wood and lunges
Stoutly at the dragon's head
Till the fiery beast is dead...

Now that dusk is fast falling
He'll obey his mother's calling.
Out of Fairyland with slow
Thoughtful steps he turns to go.
Yet there's just time to float
In the water-butt his boat
Made of cork and spent matches:
So, at the last he snatches
Great adventure from the dread
Unrelenting jaws of Bed.
Round the magic world rides he,
And lives a breathless Odyssey.

_If all the trees were magic trees_

If all the trees were magic trees
And talked among themselves,
If kings could sleep in daffodils
And bishops danced on window-sills,
If all the valleys changed to hill