Candle and the flame : poems / by George Sylvester Viereck [electronic text]
About this Item
Title
Candle and the flame : poems / by George Sylvester Viereck [electronic text]
Author
Viereck, George Sylvester, 1884-1962
Publication
New York, N.Y.: Moffat, Yard and Company
1912
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"Candle and the flame : poems / by George Sylvester Viereck [electronic text]." In the digital collection American Verse Project. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/BAE6678.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed April 18, 2024.
Pages
THE BREEZE
(AFTER THE FRENCH OF ZAMAÇOIS)
THE breeze that stirs in yonder treeAnd the young roses rocks to sleep,Wafts to my mind the memoryOf a young Zephyr who would sweepAcross the land with fellows gay,Winged with the wind like them, and bentOn fond adventure, who one May(O wine of spring, O golden day!)Traversed a castle's battlement,And on the terrace, spinning there,He found a child divinely fair,(O lovely maid with sun-kissed hair!)Swift drawing from an ivory loomA thread more soft than gossamer.Her eyes were bluer in his sightThan the enchanted azure mereWhich on that morning in his flightHis wings had grazed, and crystal-clear.
And as he loosed a golden strandFrom her dear head, she raised a handAnd looked and laughed, and brushed it back
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So sweet, so chaste, so debonair, That the young Breeze, who had no lackOf conquests in the heights aboveAmong the damsels of the air,And danced a pirouette with Love,Felt that his heart was held for e'erBy that sweet child divinely fair,(O sea-blue eyes, O sun-kissed hair!)Whose lily hands were spinning thereA weft more soft than gossamer.
Surely no tale beneath the sunMore dainty could or stranger be,Than how that maid a lover wonWhose countenance she could not see.He was content unknown to stirAbout the spinner and the loom,And, as he could not bring to herThe trees and flowers all abloom,He wafted shoals of butterfliesWith wings of silver to her room.Blue, red and golden butterfliesHe blew into her hair, and thenWhen she caressed them with her eyes,In fury drove them out again.The scent of new-mown hay he broughtThat peasants garner in the fields,And marjoram and meadow-sweetAnd every fair the garden yields
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In all the pleasant realm of France:Forget-me-nots and rosemaryAnd orange-blossoms from Provence.These and full many perfumes rareHe ravished from the summer airFor his young love divinely fair,(O sea-blue eyes, O sun-kissed hair!)Smiling, and spinning at the wheelThe weft more soft than gossamer.
Full beakers of the sunshine goldHe dashed in winter on her cheeks;And, in the sultry summer night,Cool snow-drifts from the mountain peaks.When over courtly tale she poredBy pious monk or poet sage,He stood behind the lady's chair,Unbeckoned oft, to turn her page.And, when the lovely maiden sleptWithin her satin-curtained bed,He would caress her honeyed locksAnd call sweet blessings on her head.And in the watches of the nightOnce, in an ecstasy of bliss,He breathed upon her dimpled mouthThe thing that mortals call a kiss.Alas! One day from Aquitaine,Upon an ebon-colored mare,
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Rode proudly to the castle's gateA gallant noble, young and fair.And he was smitten with great love(O sea-blue eyes, O sun-kissed hair!)When he beheld the lady thereSpinning a bridal gown more whiteAnd softer still than gossamer.
He gave her pearls her throat to grace, And bracelets for her tender wrist;How can the sweetest breeze prevailO'er ruby ring and amethyst?When it was known that she would wedThe fair young lord from Aquitaine,The Zephyr lashed the castle wall,And day and night he sobbed in pain.He murdered every rose there bloomedThat none might deck her bridal train.When came that office most divineHe beat, in impotent despair,Against the chapel's holy shrine,And from the chalice drank the wine.When for the bride divinely fair(O sea-blue eyes, O sun-kissed hair!)In rich brocade and satin shoonAnd veils more soft than gossamer,The bells intoned a marriage rune,He flew into the sexton's faceUntil they jangled out of tune.
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Then to the desert wild he sped,Heart-broken, anguished and alone.Before his rage the camels fled,The turbaned merchants feared his moan.He raced across the glacial seasWith the great cyclones of the world;And, ever waxing, angrily.Both beast and bird before him whirled.At last, still panting from the race,Back to fair France he turned his faceTo break the castle's granite tower,And of its splendor leave no trace.But lo! within the creaking wallsThat he had entered to destroy,He found, more frail than any flowerAnd fairer far, a baby boy.Infinities of love and trustWithin the mother's eyes he read,And trembled lest he harm one hairUpon the infant's golden head.He pined away in one sweet breath,Content to find both peace and deathBeside the mother still more fair,(O sea-blue eyes, O sun-kissed hair!)Patiently smiling, spinning thereA baby's gown of gossamer.
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