Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, BALLADE, by OSCAR VLADISLAS DE LUBICZ- MILOSZ



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

BALLADE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The foolish fowls of the toad and the witch
Last Line: My sister, does the horn not sound for you?
Subject(s): Fantasy; Fear; Love


THE foolish fowls of the toad and the witch
-- Under the weeping willow --
With the pearls in his poisonous pelt feel rich.
My Sister, does the horn not sound for you?

And the hideous amours all masked with leprosies
And the red-clotted cough of Disease's legionaries,

And the itchy vultures with eyes of fear profound,
Silent and still before the harbour of the Drowned,

And the bell, whose old throat is brimming o'er with rain,
And the wild alarum of the past's forgotten train,

And the cross, where the crows in pitchy clusters hang,
And the monastery of orts, whose impious love-feasts clang,

And the canyons and gulleys most treacherous and deep,
And the stink of the past, which 'neath rubbish tries to sleep,

And the laughter ever mute of friendships suicided
And the dumbness of the poplars by the avenue derided

Loved the lean Chevalier, with cobwebs dighted trim,
And when he passed both man and dame obeisance made to him.

And whoso met his glance, with pock-marks pitted round,
Felt within his heart a mystic midnight sound.

As flight towards Elsinore of autumn cormorants
Was the yellow, raucous sound of his pipe's discordant chants.

The ruins' honeyed sun, the lizards of the weir
Conversed with him of Arthur and of Guinevere.

His wallet housed a rat, with red eyes e'er a-rake;
This rodent was the soul of Launcelot of the Lake.

His vision had the smell of a musty priory,
Yet the swinging stiffs saluted him with bony courtesy.

The bristling caterpillars unwinding glints and gleams
Somewhere devoured the ego of the Lady of his Dreams.

Mist o' the Marsh his squire was, one well-endowed with skill,
And little it irked his conscience when he did a fat monk kill.

He had a steed of rainwater with a brown ear lopped and chewn,
And often I have heard him neigh his challenge at the moon.

Like adders lying asleep swelled his veins. Some people said
He was a royal peer who had from Poland fled.

When he traversed the forest, humid, blue and dire,
The toadstools of Damnation took off their caps of fire.

The girls at eve awaited him by the wells with mosses seamed,
And with little humpbacked bastards the towns and hamlets teemed.

Yellow flared the leaves that were the coat of mail
Of this monarch cursed by kingdoms monotonous and stale.

His motto: "Shall I love?" was limned his casque below,
And his heart was as an asp asleep beneath the snow.

When from the thirteenth cup his lips no wine could borrow
-- Under the weeping willow --
His yesterday with joy espoused his meek to-morrow.

My Sister, does the horn not sound for you?





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