Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE CROWN, by HENRI FRANCOIS JOSEPH DE REGNIER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE CROWN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Silently through the dusk my thoughts return to me
Last Line: One coronet for both of astral buds and leaves.
Subject(s): Children; Crowns; Fear; Flowers; Life; Pride; Childhood; Self-esteem; Self-respect


SILENTLY through the dusk my thoughts return to me,
Weary from the way with heads drooping languidly;
One by one they come through the twilight's veil of lawn
From life unto their home, whence they set out at dawn.
My eyes would welcome them. 'Tis they! I am aware
Of the children of my mind in the shadows there.
Yet even as they stand their faces turn away
For fear my look should find the scorching of their day,
My thoughts with recreant eyes, my most familiar thoughts,
The children of my ever-labouring mind -- my thoughts!
Assuredly 'tis they who resolutely strode
From the chambers of my mind to take the shining road
Descending through the hours to the clamouring booths of
Day. . . .
. . . 'Tis thou! What hast thou done? Who filled for thee the cup?
Has the living water failed and is its spring dried up?
Alas, her hands are void; her lips a-fevered burn
And at her feet are strewn the orts and shards that spurn
Her parched mouth's appealing. Thought, thou art accursed,
And the shattered vessel mocks thy everlasting thirst!
But thou, my sweet, my beautiful, why dost thou start?
In what unholy revel hast thou taken part
That, with thy cheek enflamed and wind-distracted tress,
Thou staggerest before me in thy wine-sopped dress?
Wanton, get thee from me! . . . Ah, thou there in the shade,
What is it scarps thy visage? Miserable maid,
Why frettest thou thy breast with agitated hands,
Torturing thy shadow? -- The serpent coils its strands
About thy neck and bosom, thus its thirst to sate,
Mingling in thy curdled blood bitterness and hate.
Thou also, Devotee of Pride, what dost thou bring?
-- Purple rent and sceptre bent of a ruined king!
And well do I know thee, whose evil laughter smote
Upon my ears at dawn. Lo, there upon thy throat
The crimson scars of Lust's embrace, that mocked thy zeal
With bitten mouth, torn cheeks, and wounds that will not heal.
Alas, my thoughts, my thoughts, what have you made of me?
What has one short day made of thee . . . and thee . . . and thee?
All ruined! Nay, not all, for one has not returned,
One pure, white thought, who left me when the day-star burned.
O sweet and chaste, it is to thee my soul shall go,
To the sacred cedarn grove, lit with its cross of snow,
There where alone thou sittest at Love's guileless feet,
Where silence is serene and only looks entreat;
Where he leans over thee and thou art urged toward him,
One hand vouchsafing flowers as bright as seraphim;
While, with the blooms he proffers, its ardent sister weaves
One coronet for both of astral buds and leaves.





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