Read Complete Works of James Joyce Online
Authors: Unknown
That I am feeble, that my fe
e
t
That I am feeble, that my feet
Are weak as young twigs in the wind;
That this poor heart, which was of old
So reckless, passionate and proud,
Shivers at trifles and wanes cold
Whene’er thy fair face shows a cloud.
A golden bird in azure skies,
Late radiant with sunbright wings,
Is fallen down to earth, and sighs
The grieving soul. But no grief is thi
n
e
The grieving soul. But no grief is thine
Who driftest the creeks and shallows among,
Shaking thy hair of the clinging brine.
Why is thy garment closer drawn?
Thine eyes are sad, my sorrowful one,
Thy tresses are strewn with the woe of dawn,
The pearly dawn weeping the sun.
Hast thou no word - to raise - to ease
Our souls? Well, go, for the faint far cry
Of the seabirds calls thee over the seas.
Let us fling to the winds all moping and madne
s
s
Let us fling to the winds all moping and madness,
Play us a jig in the spirit of gladness
On the creaky, old squeaky strings of the fiddle.
The why of the world is an answerless riddle
Puzzlesome, tiresome, hard to unriddle
To the seventeen devils with sapient sadness:
Tra la, tra la.
Hands that soothe my burning ey
e
s
Hands that soothe my burning eyes
In the silence of moonrise,
At the midmost hour of night,
Trouble me not.
Fingers soft as rain alight,
Like flowers borne upon the night
From the pure deeps of sapphire skies.
Now a whisper... now a gale
List, ah list, how drear it calls!
There is in it that appals
As it wanders round the walls,
Like a forlorn woman, pale.
List the wind!
O, queen, do on thy cloak
Of scarlet, passion hue,
And lift, attending folk,
A mournful ululu,
For flame-spun is the cloak.
Fling out thy voice, O lyre,
Forth of thy seven strings.
Requiem eternam dona ei, Domi
n
e
‘Requiem eternam dona ei, Domine’;
Silently, sorrowfully I bent down my head,
For I had hated him - a poor creature of clay:
And all my envious, bitter, cruel thoughts that came
Out of the past and stood by the bier whereon he lay
Pointed their long, lean fingers through the gloom... O Name
Ineffable, proud Name to whom the cries ascend
From lost, angelical orders, seraph flame to flame,
For this end have I hated him - for this poor end?
Of thy dark life, without a love, without a frie
n
d
Of thy dark life, without a love, without a friend,
Here is, indeed, an end.
There are no lips to kiss this foul remains of thee,
O, dead Unchastity!
The curse of loneliness broods silent on thee still,
Doing its utmost will,
And men shall cast thee justly to thy narrow tomb,
A sad and bitter doom.
I intone the high anthem,
Partaking in their festival.
Swing out, swing in, the night is dark,
Magical hair, alive with glee,
Winnowing spark after spark,
Star after star, rapturously.
Toss and toss, amazing arms;
Witches, weave upon the floor
Your subtle-woven web of charms.
Some are comely and some are so
u
r
Some are comely and some are sour,
Some are dark as wintry mould,
Some are fair as a golden shower.
To music liquid as a stream
They move with dazzling symmetry;
Their flashing limbs blend in a gleam
Of luminous-swift harmony.
They wear gold crescents on their heads,
Hornèd and brilliant as the moon:
Flower to flower knits
Of willing lips and leaves:
Thy springtide of bliss
Maketh the breezes sing,
And blossoms yield their kiss
Unto amorous thieves.
But the arrow that flies
Must fall spent at last;