The Emperor Julian

October pi dé (Octobre) Catulle Mendès

In their funereal cribs, the dead of yesterday, New-born ones of Eternity.

Dream-lulled by the dry leaves monotonous roundalay. Of à regretted phantasy.

The wind blows from the North; but cold breathe as it may It holdeth yet the memory

Of when it was the kiss of Summer hot astray O’er grape and peach ripe on the tree.

? Tis your hour, widowhood’s late-made remembrances Whose objects scarce in death yet cold; Still life à quiver is, with its last sufferances ;

And moaning like à soft-blown horn, The season sad that mourns for Light and hopes forlorn, Strews ashes on its head of gold.

Pride (L'Orgueil) Edouard Pailleron.

My life’s prime weapon is my pride indomitable

The anchor of my Faith, my work’s foundation stone Strong, stronger than a rock, more puissant than a throne Too hard it is for Time, too high for Envy fell.

None other than its law, I know in Heaven or Hell. Sorrow can do its worst l’1l meet it without moan, Right turning neither left, my way I go alone : Myself myself ” I Call, and what I will, will well.

In vain it were that hate, a word from my dismay An outery from my wrath, should look to for its pay : That which from so low comes is little worth my pain,

From the heights where I dwell ‘tis but a sound in air; I hear and smile and on my way in silence fare My silence hath to name contempt, my smile disdain.

Eyes.

(Les Yeux)

Sully-Prudhomme.

All loved, all fair, black brown blue grey, Eyes without count have seen the light.

They sleep within the graveyard’s night And the sun rises still each day.

The nights more dulcet than the days Their spells on countless eyes have laid The stars shine still in Heaven’s Highways The eyes have filled themselves with shade

That they have lost for ever glance And light, no, « tis not possible. »

They’ve turned themselves somewhere askance Tow’rd what we call the Invisible.

And like the falling stars that yet Though quitting us still in the sky Abide, eyes have their time to set :

But it untrue is that they die.

AI loved, all fair, blue, black, brown, grey, The eyes that we have closed may be,

Open to some immense new day

On the tomb’s thither side yet see,

The White Moon.

(La Lune Blanche\

Paul Verlaine.

The moon shines white, On the mid brake

In the wood night

Soft voices wake

From every bough

All leaf, branch, spray « Beloved » I say

« See sweetheart how Glassed in the jet

Of the mere’s deeps

A silhouette.

Where the wind weeps Like à black flower The willow gleams.

Dream ‘tis the hour The hour of dreams.

À veil of vast

And tender peace

From Heaven downcast Falls like à fleece,

On break and bower, Neath the moon’s kiss.

Sing ’tis the hour The hour of bliss,

The Impossible.

(l’Impossible)

Henri Warnery.

The impossible still tempts; how high so’er it be, Incessantly we strive the summit to attain

The stalwarter the arm, the ardenter the brain.

The more the ideal false from our attempt doth flee,

The future’ neath our brows ferments unceasingly;

All progress unassayed leaves à remorseful pain

In us, and’ neath the need, whose goad doth us constrain Nought can assuage the thirst that racks us, you and me. A bridleless desire of the unknown for Heaven Insatiable thirst to attain the impossible.

What hope hath ever good that which it promised made ? No matter ! Tow’rd the goal, though inacessible,

Strive we; for glory by the danger dared is weighed. Better to vanquished be, than never to have striven:! !

1. Une pensée pareille se trouve dans 1n Memoriam, de Tennyson.