Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, NIGHT OF SHADOWS, by CHARLES GUERIN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

NIGHT OF SHADOWS, by                    
First Line: Night of shadows, tragic, helpless night!
Last Line: The sleep of the conquered and the sleep of the dead.
Subject(s): Dreams; Night; Shadows; Sleep; Stars; Nightmares; Bedtime


Night of shadows, tragic, helpless night!
I stifled in the room where my soul was imprisoned,
Where I paced through weary, bitter hours, vainly
Seeking to dull or drown or drive away my torment;
And I opened the window to the full light of the moon.
Far-off, with only its peaks in the darkness showing,
Like a symphony pervaded with an artless theme,
The shadowed mountain rolled across the heavens
And in the eastern midnight bound the stars.

Light breaths of the night air fanned me with their wings.
A murmur that crossed the lifting round of a hillock
Told the invisible presence of a stream.
Lowering my eyelids to bring on the dream, I heard
The weary watchdogs bark along the road
Where the footsteps of a belated journeyer fell.

Then, leaning on the hard, cold sill, alone,
And wan to my spirit's depth with being's void,
I cursed the blue night wherein the earth and the heavens
Were a young couple, whispering. And I saw
That life, indifferent to my empty heart,
Infinitely empty of what it most beloved,
Withdrew into its joy, and there adored
Itself. I saw, and yielded up the pride
That was my strength, and cried for love and death.

"You have come, my desire, O virgin, well-beloved!
Like a half-burned lamp, restraining the swollen breast
Of your delights, you fill your place beside me.
You let your head fall down upon my shoulder,
You give beneath my hand like a willow bough,
Your silence thrills me, and the beauty of your eyes,
So tender that my heart bursts into sobs.
Sister, betrothed, belovèd, angel, bride,
'Tis you, 'tis you here dreaming in my arms!
You here forever mine, to sleep henceforth
Mingled, molten with me, thoughtful and happy,
Endlessly prodigal of your loving soul!
Just God, be blessèd of this blessèd child
Who sees and holds unto him his living dream!
But speak, you. Rather, hold, and so remain
Until, faithless to the pallid sky, there falls
Out of the east the last star of the night.

"Already the water of morning gleams on the grass,
And as its magic finger moulds all things
Dawn laughing shakes over the earth its apron of roses.
The anvil strikes the angelus of toil
Far-off, and from bell to bell the cattle pass
With harsh guiding bellow. All the valley
Wears tones of fluent emerald, and in the town
That shines in the midst of wide, green meadowlands
The opening windows interchange their flash.
The freshness of life enters through the casement;
I breathe, I drink the dew upon your eyelids,
And mingled with the beauty spread around,
My endless love, I love you even more.

We tremble, drunken with the wine of joy.
And in the long ecstasy where our bodies drown,
Believing that Destiny, to grace our nuptials,
Has donned the ardent vestments of the morn
And borrowed from the sky its monstrance-flame.
Mingling their dream, our undivided souls
Across the growing rumble of the day
Weep in the infinite silence of their love."

Love? ... Raise your eyes, poor child, and look around!
The valley is blue in the moonlight still, the day withholds,
The river murmurs far-off under the wind,
And you are here more lonely than before.
The well-belovèd, of the thoughtful brow,
Came not. The breast you held was the bare stone.
The voice of your infinite joy was but the echo
Of the sound of poplars shivering on the shore:
Alas! the transport of that softening hour
Was the snare of desire deft in its own deceit.

Come, close the window, relinquish all your hope.
With your body's length measure your gloomy fireplace:
Are you not that burnt-out hearth where two chimæras
Gleam with a vain glory over the bitter ashes?
And, since all is false, since even your art
Scales from the wrinkles of your heart like old paint,
Against the assault of your insensate pain
Seek the sure refuge where man flies his thought:
Open the lorn sepulchre of your bed, and sleep
The sleep of the conquered and the sleep of the dead.







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