Chasing Windmills

FOR THE BOOK OF LOVE

I can die tomorrow and I have not loved.
My lips never touched a woman's while I lived.
None has given me her soul in a look; none in heat
Has held me, exhausted with love, to her heart.

I have but suffered for all nature, each moment,
For the beings, the wind, the flowers, the firmament,
Suffered through all my nerves minutely, like a knife.
Suffered to have a soul still not yet pure enough.

I spat upon love, and I killed the flesh.
Mad with pride on this Earth enslaved by Instinct's leash,
I alone stood and stiffened myself against life.
I challenged the Instinct with a bitter laugh.

Everywhere, in the salons, at the theatre, in church,
Before these cold, great men, these men of finest touch,
And those women with gentle, or jealous, or proud eyes
Whose tender, ravished soul one might virginally rechase,

I thought: all these are come to it. I heard it in their rites
The roarings of the unclean coupling brutes.
So much mire with an access of three minutes in mind!
Men, be correct! O women, keep your smiles refined.

Jules LaForgue
(1860-1887)

posted by Michael @ 2:30 PM