....he knew of the innermost danger of all artists,
he knew the utter loneliness of the man destined to be an artist,
he knew the inherent loneliness which drove such a one
into the still deeper loneliness of art
and into the beauty that cannot be articulated,
he knew the utter loneliness of the man destined to be an artist,
he knew the inherent loneliness which drove such a one
into the still deeper loneliness of art
and into the beauty that cannot be articulated,
and he knew that for the most part such men were shattered by this immolation,
that it made them blind, blind to the world,
blind to the divine quality in the world and in the fellow-man,
that--intoxicated by their loneliness--
that it made them blind, blind to the world,
blind to the divine quality in the world and in the fellow-man,
that--intoxicated by their loneliness--
they were able to see only their own god-likeness,
which they imagined to be unique,
and consequently this self-idolatry and its greed for recognition
came more and more to be the sole content of their work--,
a betrayal of the divine as well as of art,
because in this fashion the work of art became a work of un-art,
an unchaste covering for artistic vanity,
which they imagined to be unique,
and consequently this self-idolatry and its greed for recognition
came more and more to be the sole content of their work--,
a betrayal of the divine as well as of art,
because in this fashion the work of art became a work of un-art,
an unchaste covering for artistic vanity,
so spurious that even the artist's self-complacent nakedness
which it exposed became a mask;
and even though such unchaste self-gratification,
such dalliance with beauty,
such concern with effects,
even though such an un-art might,
despite its brief unrenewable grant,
its inextensible boundaries,
which it exposed became a mask;
and even though such unchaste self-gratification,
such dalliance with beauty,
such concern with effects,
even though such an un-art might,
despite its brief unrenewable grant,
its inextensible boundaries,
find an easier way to the populace than real art ever found,
it was only a specious way, a way out of the loneliness,
but not, however, an affiliation with the human community,
which was the aim of real art in its aspiration toward humanity,
no, it was the affiliation with the mob,
it was a participation in its treacherous non-community,
which was incapable of the pledge,
it was only a specious way, a way out of the loneliness,
but not, however, an affiliation with the human community,
which was the aim of real art in its aspiration toward humanity,
no, it was the affiliation with the mob,
it was a participation in its treacherous non-community,
which was incapable of the pledge,
which neither created nor mastered any reality,
and which was unwilling to do so,
preferring only to drowse on, forgetting reality,
having forfeited it as had un-art and literarity,
this was the most profound danger for every artist;
oh how painfully,
how very painfully he knew this...........................................
and which was unwilling to do so,
preferring only to drowse on, forgetting reality,
having forfeited it as had un-art and literarity,
this was the most profound danger for every artist;
oh how painfully,
how very painfully he knew this...........................................
Memory, memory, what do you want from me? I remember
Autumn made the thrush fly through the lifeless air,
And the sun launched a monotonous ray where
The north wind exploded in a wood growing yellower.
We were alone together and, dreaming, wandered,
She and I, our hair and our thoughts in the wind.
Suddenly, her gaze full of feeling, she turned:
“What was your happiest day?” Her gold voice, livened,
Her soft resonant voice, cool timbre of an angel.
My reply was a reserved smile,
And devoutly I kissed her white hand.
Ah, the first flowers and their perfume!
And the murmuring spell of the sound,
The first yes from those lips when you so love them!
*
It has often been said that love, both sacred and profane, is the only true subject of the lyric poem. Nothing better justifies this claim than the splendid poems in this volume, which range from the writings of ancient China to those of modern-day America and represent, at its most piercing, a universal experience of the human soul. Includes poems by John Donne, Christina Rossetti, W. H. Auden, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Robert Graves, e. e. cummings, Dorothy Parker, William Shakespeare, Sappho, Bhartrhari, Anna Akhmatova, and W. B. Yeats, among many others.
