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The Poems and Prose of Ernest Dowson
Ernest Dowson was born in 1867 at Lea, in Kent, England. Most of his life was spent in France. He died February 21, 1900.
The poems in this volume were published at varying intervals from his Oxford days at Queens College to the time of his death. The prose works here included were published in 1886, 1890, 1892 and in 1893.
The poems in this volume were published at varying intervals from his Oxford days at Queens College to the time of his death. The prose works here included were published in 1886, 1890, 1892 and in 1893.
164 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1905
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About the author
Ernest Dowson
89 books43 followersErnest Christopher Dowson was an English poet, novelist and writer of short stories, associated with the Decadent movement.
Dowson attended The Queen's College, Oxford, but left before obtaining a degree. In November 1888, he started work with his father at Dowson and Son, a dry-docking business in Limehouse, east London, established by the poet's grandfather. He led an active social life, carousing with medical students and law pupils, going to music halls, and taking the performers to dinner. Meanwhile, he was also working assiduously at his writing. He was a member of the Rhymers' Club, which included W. B. Yeats and Lionel Johnson. He was also a frequent contributor to the literary magazines The Yellow Book and The Savoy. Dowson collaborated on two unsuccessful novels with Arthur Moore, worked on a novel of his own, Madame de Viole, and wrote reviews for The Critic.
Dowson was also a prolific translator of French fiction, including novels by Balzac and the Goncourt brothers, and Les Liaisons Dangereuses by Choderlos de Laclos.
In 1889, at the age of 23, Dowson fell in love with 11-year-old Adelaide "Missie" Foltinowicz, the daughter of a Polish restaurant owner. Adelaide is reputed to be the subject of one his best-known poems, Non Sum Qualis eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae. He pursued her unsuccessfully; in 1897, she married a tailor who lodged above her father's restaurant and Dowson was crushed. In August, 1894, Dowson's father, who was in the advanced stages of tuberculosis, died of an overdose of chloral hydrate. His mother, who was also consumptive, hanged herself in February, 1895, and soon Dowson began to decline rapidly.
Robert Sherard one day found Dowson almost penniless in a wine bar and took him back to the cottage in Catford where he was himself living. Dowson spent the last six weeks of his life at Sherard's cottage and died there of alcoholism at the age of 32. He is buried in the Roman Catholic section of nearby Brockley and Ladywell Cemeteries.
Dowson attended The Queen's College, Oxford, but left before obtaining a degree. In November 1888, he started work with his father at Dowson and Son, a dry-docking business in Limehouse, east London, established by the poet's grandfather. He led an active social life, carousing with medical students and law pupils, going to music halls, and taking the performers to dinner. Meanwhile, he was also working assiduously at his writing. He was a member of the Rhymers' Club, which included W. B. Yeats and Lionel Johnson. He was also a frequent contributor to the literary magazines The Yellow Book and The Savoy. Dowson collaborated on two unsuccessful novels with Arthur Moore, worked on a novel of his own, Madame de Viole, and wrote reviews for The Critic.
Dowson was also a prolific translator of French fiction, including novels by Balzac and the Goncourt brothers, and Les Liaisons Dangereuses by Choderlos de Laclos.
In 1889, at the age of 23, Dowson fell in love with 11-year-old Adelaide "Missie" Foltinowicz, the daughter of a Polish restaurant owner. Adelaide is reputed to be the subject of one his best-known poems, Non Sum Qualis eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae. He pursued her unsuccessfully; in 1897, she married a tailor who lodged above her father's restaurant and Dowson was crushed. In August, 1894, Dowson's father, who was in the advanced stages of tuberculosis, died of an overdose of chloral hydrate. His mother, who was also consumptive, hanged herself in February, 1895, and soon Dowson began to decline rapidly.
Robert Sherard one day found Dowson almost penniless in a wine bar and took him back to the cottage in Catford where he was himself living. Dowson spent the last six weeks of his life at Sherard's cottage and died there of alcoholism at the age of 32. He is buried in the Roman Catholic section of nearby Brockley and Ladywell Cemeteries.
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Displaying 1 - 15 of 15 reviews
February 18, 2021
A collection of poems, one play and several prose pieces by a Decadent I'd never heard of until recently, although when I had finally dragged my unwilling carcass through all the poetry, I was no longer suprised of my ignorance for the author.
The poems are at best ok. Aside from all the pining, there's not a lot here that strikes me as particularly decadent, save a rather macabre line in which he compares writing a Villanelle about woman to dismembering her. Mostly they're sonnets on love lost, with far too much Latin, and some very dodgy rhyming. I cannot forgive a poet who rhymes 'dream' with 'dream', never mind having the gall to do it twice in two different poems (what, pray, the fuck, my dear Dowson?).
My favourites, such as they are, are: Yvonne of Brittany, Spleen, Soli Cantare Periti Arcades, Epigram and A Last Word, but nothing felt endlessly quotable or achingly moving, sadly.
Apart from this, anyway, which I found rather pleasant:
The prose pieces are where Dowson shines. Everyone of them is a tragedy and here's where the Decadence I wanted lies. Religion as a darkened, masochistic cage, tortured consciences, suicide, there is no such thing as a content marriage apparently, divine music, and yet none of it overtly fantastical. All of it is oddly simple and familiar, offering the sensation that Dowson is peeling back the flimsy skin of the ordinary to reveal the malignant anxiety and decay festering beneath. Great stuff.
So, naff poet, moderate dramatist, beautiful prose writer.
The poems are at best ok. Aside from all the pining, there's not a lot here that strikes me as particularly decadent, save a rather macabre line in which he compares writing a Villanelle about woman to dismembering her. Mostly they're sonnets on love lost, with far too much Latin, and some very dodgy rhyming. I cannot forgive a poet who rhymes 'dream' with 'dream', never mind having the gall to do it twice in two different poems (what, pray, the fuck, my dear Dowson?).
My favourites, such as they are, are: Yvonne of Brittany, Spleen, Soli Cantare Periti Arcades, Epigram and A Last Word, but nothing felt endlessly quotable or achingly moving, sadly.
Apart from this, anyway, which I found rather pleasant:
Short summer-time and then, my heart’s desire,His play The Pierrot Of The Minute was a little more interesting, where Pierrot (a French clown character that has little meaning to me as English man, but apparently he's known for having his heart broken) seeks romance and so calls the Moon Maiden to soothe his cerulean testes, not caring for her warning of tragic consequences. It's a delightfully silly little play in rhyme, and I can easily imagine thespians performing it with exaggerated prancing as a relaxing break from more taxing dramas.
The winter and the darkness: one by one
The roses fall, the pale roses expire
Beneath the slow decadence of the sun.
The prose pieces are where Dowson shines. Everyone of them is a tragedy and here's where the Decadence I wanted lies. Religion as a darkened, masochistic cage, tortured consciences, suicide, there is no such thing as a content marriage apparently, divine music, and yet none of it overtly fantastical. All of it is oddly simple and familiar, offering the sensation that Dowson is peeling back the flimsy skin of the ordinary to reveal the malignant anxiety and decay festering beneath. Great stuff.
So, naff poet, moderate dramatist, beautiful prose writer.
ebooks-tbr
August 3, 2019pre-review comment -
i've read quite a few poems but not the whole volume (which i intend to when i have the chance), and i truly think dowson is one of the most underrated Decadent British poets. his only well-known line, from ...cynarae is "madder music and stronger wine" which is not only a Mood but also exquisite; but at the same time only a tiny sample of what he is capable of.
i've read quite a few poems but not the whole volume (which i intend to when i have the chance), and i truly think dowson is one of the most underrated Decadent British poets. his only well-known line, from ...cynarae is "madder music and stronger wine" which is not only a Mood but also exquisite; but at the same time only a tiny sample of what he is capable of.
Read
May 13, 2015I'm weirdly into Dowson, though he died young (I think literally in a Parisian gutter - so he's a good one for Tragic Poet Bingo) and left very little behind. He was fragile and alcoholic and melancholy and I've filed him under 'queer' I think erroneously because I'm not sure there's any actual evidence of it. Or interest on his part.
He just looks like a gayer to me:
In fact, I think he was kind of into little girls.
Not in the, uh, active sense. Just in the sense of writing creepy poetry about the beauties of lost innocence.
Like the dude himself, Dowson's verse is fragile and sad and sensual and usually about the LOSS OF ALL THE STUFF. But there's a technical precision and a musicality to him that I find really rather lovely.
His most famous poem is probably this one:
Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae
Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was grey:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind,
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
Its most famous line, of course, being 'gone with the wind'.
To me this epitomises decadent poetry - the juxtaposition of the fleeting (pale lost lilies) and the decidedly base ('bought red mouth'), the deep themes of loss and disappointment, coupled with an overwrought sensuality that at once seduces and wearies.
He just looks like a gayer to me:
In fact, I think he was kind of into little girls.
Not in the, uh, active sense. Just in the sense of writing creepy poetry about the beauties of lost innocence.
Like the dude himself, Dowson's verse is fragile and sad and sensual and usually about the LOSS OF ALL THE STUFF. But there's a technical precision and a musicality to him that I find really rather lovely.
His most famous poem is probably this one:
Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae
Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was grey:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind,
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
Its most famous line, of course, being 'gone with the wind'.
To me this epitomises decadent poetry - the juxtaposition of the fleeting (pale lost lilies) and the decidedly base ('bought red mouth'), the deep themes of loss and disappointment, coupled with an overwrought sensuality that at once seduces and wearies.
January 29, 2021
Dowson's poetry is undeniably melodramatic; often colored by a romantic sensibility that is almost histrionic in its obsession with melancholy and idealistic longing. But while his verses may not be as complex or erudite as some of his more famous contemporaries, the sincerity and passion of his words are conveyed with beautiful clarity. In its less meticulously structured arrangements, Dowson's poems contain the suggestion of a swift, disastrous, and passionate life pervaded by a fevered and hopeless sense of desire. His work gives the feeling of having stumbled across some secret personal manuscript, while also evoking universal themes that will no doubt allow an affected reader to channel their own experiences.
One of Dowson's charms is that although he may not be the most well-known of the Decadents, over time his work has become extremely influential to those who relate to his disposition. Some of his gems include "Cynara", a line from which the title for "Gone with the Wind" was taken, and other personal favorites, "Yvonne of Brittany", "Cease Smiling", and "Sapientia Lunae".
One of Dowson's charms is that although he may not be the most well-known of the Decadents, over time his work has become extremely influential to those who relate to his disposition. Some of his gems include "Cynara", a line from which the title for "Gone with the Wind" was taken, and other personal favorites, "Yvonne of Brittany", "Cease Smiling", and "Sapientia Lunae".
July 20, 2017
Two haunting phrases - "gone with the wind" and "days of wine and roses" - have entered English vernacular courtesy of Ernest Dowson, but few are familiar with this esoteric poet's small but powerful corpus. In this reprinted collection, modern readers are exposed to the intensity and passion of a poet who, while not a genius, rallied such talent as he possessed to express, in beautiful verbiage, the depths of his soul. The result is a body of poetry and prose that is spectral, memorable, and remarkable.
Often criticized for being overly flowery and emotional, Dowson's writing actually walks an incredibly fine line between the profanity of saccharine drivel and the sublimity of lyrical exposition. His sense of composition and tempo is positively musical, and his poetry benefits greatly from being read aloud. His subject matter, while invariably dwelling upon the loss of something - innocence, love, time, etc. - offers up a sense of melancholic ennui rather than mere melodrama. Dowson thus presents the chimaera of a less technically rigid Philip Stanhope Worseley and a more florid Andrew Marvell. One of the most impressive features of Dowson's work, however, is that despite the fact that one can usually tell in what direction the narrative is headed, this foresight comes across, not as cliched, but as fatal: a palpable fatalism pervades Dowson's work, which is fitting for a man who died so young.
Naturally, Dowson is not without his flaws. The repetition of theme tends to blend many of his poems together, and reliance upon a too common vocabulary furthers this effect. There is also an uneven quality in Dowson's writing, and it can be jarring to move from poems which are merely good to poems that are superlative. One gets the sense of a poet whose unbridled skill required further tempering, which Dowson, alas, never received.
To some degree, however, this primitive passion of part of Dowson's appeal. I would recommend his works to any fans of Romantic and 19th century English poetry, especially those who are fans of Worsley and the Aesthetic poets.
Often criticized for being overly flowery and emotional, Dowson's writing actually walks an incredibly fine line between the profanity of saccharine drivel and the sublimity of lyrical exposition. His sense of composition and tempo is positively musical, and his poetry benefits greatly from being read aloud. His subject matter, while invariably dwelling upon the loss of something - innocence, love, time, etc. - offers up a sense of melancholic ennui rather than mere melodrama. Dowson thus presents the chimaera of a less technically rigid Philip Stanhope Worseley and a more florid Andrew Marvell. One of the most impressive features of Dowson's work, however, is that despite the fact that one can usually tell in what direction the narrative is headed, this foresight comes across, not as cliched, but as fatal: a palpable fatalism pervades Dowson's work, which is fitting for a man who died so young.
Naturally, Dowson is not without his flaws. The repetition of theme tends to blend many of his poems together, and reliance upon a too common vocabulary furthers this effect. There is also an uneven quality in Dowson's writing, and it can be jarring to move from poems which are merely good to poems that are superlative. One gets the sense of a poet whose unbridled skill required further tempering, which Dowson, alas, never received.
To some degree, however, this primitive passion of part of Dowson's appeal. I would recommend his works to any fans of Romantic and 19th century English poetry, especially those who are fans of Worsley and the Aesthetic poets.
September 25, 2021
Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae
Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was grey:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind,
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was grey:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind,
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
February 24, 2021
A collection of poetry and short stories by the determinedly morbid coiner of, for example, the phrases 'gone with the wind' and 'the days of wine and roses'. The poems are dominated by an overwrought and romantic tone which Dowson uses to describe the fleetingness of love and life, and some succeed far better than others (the collection is sprinkled with a particularly dull series of villanelles). The best examples have great impact and bear re-reading, and Dowson's ability to make phrases, construct rhymes and work within verse forms seldom fails. There are some interesting poems with longer lines and unusually rhymed words, such as Carthusians, which contrast well with the lyric forms. The short stories are psychological portraits rather than being narrative-driven, and are compellingly well-expressed. I first came across Dowson when I read Michael Moorcock's superb Dancers at the End of Time trilogy, which uses phrases from the poems as titles.
July 21, 2021
Underrated poet.
November 19, 2022
see my essay "A Decadent's Dilemmas" at http://williamseaton.blogspot.com/201....
January 19, 2014
“They are not long, the days of wine and roses:”
Perhaps the line was never truer of anyone than the one who wrote it.
The poetry of Ernest Dowson presents a problem for any attempt to assess his work. All poets have greater and lesser work, but with Dowson the gap between the best poems and the rest is especially large. There are a handful of the finest lyrics in the language among sizable group of mediocre poems. But if a poet is judged on the best, then Dowson, though not in the first rank, is not very far behind.
A few quotes from his best poems for anyone not acquainted with Dowson (and for my own pleasure in quoting him):
“Wine and woman and song,
Three things garnish our way:
Yet the day is over long.”
“All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.”
I will try (and probably fail) to show why his weaker poems are weak and why the magic that characterizes his best poetry is so often lacking. Sometimes it is just that the theme is weak as in “Ad Manus Puellae” (To a Girl’s Hands). As beautiful as women’s hands can be, Dowson’s lavish poem is to much for the subject matter. But the more important failure has to do with an excess of words which I think is tied to his infatuation with the beauty possible in the English language. Take the following poem, “Dregs:”
"THE fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof
(This is the end of every song man sings!)
The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain,
Bitter as wormwood and as salt as pain;
And health and hope have gone the way of love
Into the drear oblivion of lost things.
Ghosts go along with us until the end;
This was a mistress, this, perhaps, a friend.
With pale, indifferent eyes, we sit and wait
For the dropt curtain and the closing gate:
This is the end of all the songs man sings."
I have taken the liberty of paring it down to what I think would make a better poem:
The fire is out;
The wine is drunk, the dregs remain;
Ghosts go along with us until the end;
With pale, indifferent eyes, we sit and wait
For the dropt curtain and the closing gate:
I think it is a case of less is more.
Nevertheless, the lesser poetry is worth reading, not perhaps so much because of the quality of the verse, but because of the person who shows through. I think that this is the case with a number of poets, i.e., that their poetry is not of a very high quality, but the person revealed in the verse is very appealing and not only appealing, but instructive. Dowson the man is very interesting; his careening between alcohol and prostitutes on the one hand and his repeated penitential returning to the Catholic Church on the other, his lost love, his final collapse and early death are a great relief from the typical middle class life, of his time, and ours. His poetry shows a real person grappling with life (and art) - failing perhaps - but alive - a person who thinks his own thoughts and feels his own feelings. His take on life is his own and not a kind of second-hand or hand-me-down version - at he same time one that is worthy of our attention, a rare combination.
Perhaps the line was never truer of anyone than the one who wrote it.
The poetry of Ernest Dowson presents a problem for any attempt to assess his work. All poets have greater and lesser work, but with Dowson the gap between the best poems and the rest is especially large. There are a handful of the finest lyrics in the language among sizable group of mediocre poems. But if a poet is judged on the best, then Dowson, though not in the first rank, is not very far behind.
A few quotes from his best poems for anyone not acquainted with Dowson (and for my own pleasure in quoting him):
“Wine and woman and song,
Three things garnish our way:
Yet the day is over long.”
“All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.”
I will try (and probably fail) to show why his weaker poems are weak and why the magic that characterizes his best poetry is so often lacking. Sometimes it is just that the theme is weak as in “Ad Manus Puellae” (To a Girl’s Hands). As beautiful as women’s hands can be, Dowson’s lavish poem is to much for the subject matter. But the more important failure has to do with an excess of words which I think is tied to his infatuation with the beauty possible in the English language. Take the following poem, “Dregs:”
"THE fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof
(This is the end of every song man sings!)
The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain,
Bitter as wormwood and as salt as pain;
And health and hope have gone the way of love
Into the drear oblivion of lost things.
Ghosts go along with us until the end;
This was a mistress, this, perhaps, a friend.
With pale, indifferent eyes, we sit and wait
For the dropt curtain and the closing gate:
This is the end of all the songs man sings."
I have taken the liberty of paring it down to what I think would make a better poem:
The fire is out;
The wine is drunk, the dregs remain;
Ghosts go along with us until the end;
With pale, indifferent eyes, we sit and wait
For the dropt curtain and the closing gate:
I think it is a case of less is more.
Nevertheless, the lesser poetry is worth reading, not perhaps so much because of the quality of the verse, but because of the person who shows through. I think that this is the case with a number of poets, i.e., that their poetry is not of a very high quality, but the person revealed in the verse is very appealing and not only appealing, but instructive. Dowson the man is very interesting; his careening between alcohol and prostitutes on the one hand and his repeated penitential returning to the Catholic Church on the other, his lost love, his final collapse and early death are a great relief from the typical middle class life, of his time, and ours. His poetry shows a real person grappling with life (and art) - failing perhaps - but alive - a person who thinks his own thoughts and feels his own feelings. His take on life is his own and not a kind of second-hand or hand-me-down version - at he same time one that is worthy of our attention, a rare combination.
June 29, 2024
“For just one delirious moment her eyes met mine and it seemed to me - ah, well, after all it was Lorimer she loved. I read it quite calmly and dispassionately, the poor yellow letter with the faded ink, which wrote ‘Finis’ to my youth and made a man of me. ‘You are my dear friend, but it is your brother whom I love - your brother, for are you not as brothers, and I cannot break your beautiful friendship. No, that must not be. See, I ask one favour of you - I have written also to him, only one little word “Viens.” - but will you not go to him and tell him for me? Ah, my brother, my heart bleeds for you. Forgive me. Let us still be friends. Adieu! Au revoir. Thy sister, Delphine.’
I made my vow then that I would get over my folly, yet here to-day, in Bruges, I am asking myself whether after all it has been such a great success, whether sooner or later one does not have to pay for having been hard and strong, for refusing to suffer… I must leave this place, it is too full of her. Is it curiosity which is torturing me?
It seems that after all it was not Lorimer whom she chose. Madame de Savaresse writing to us both twenty years ago, made a vital and yet not inexplicable mistake. She confused her envelopes, and the letter which I received was never meant for me. He tells me that when he saw her that afternoon and found out the mistake, he had no thought except to recall me, and thrown himself on my mercy, when the news came that I had sailed.
Destiny who had no weak scruples, had stepped in and sealed Delphine’s mistake for all of time. When he went back to Bruges, Madame Savaresse must have partly guessed his baseness.
I wonder whether she is happy, whether she is dead. So near, and yet so far away - so near, and yet never quite close enough!
Then suddenly, the singing of the nuns. I rose and went out of the church quietly and hastily: Poor woman! so this is how she sought consolation, in religion! Well, there are different ways for different persons - and for me, what is left for me? One takes up one’s life and expiates its errors.
And so to-morrow - Brussels!”
I made my vow then that I would get over my folly, yet here to-day, in Bruges, I am asking myself whether after all it has been such a great success, whether sooner or later one does not have to pay for having been hard and strong, for refusing to suffer… I must leave this place, it is too full of her. Is it curiosity which is torturing me?
It seems that after all it was not Lorimer whom she chose. Madame de Savaresse writing to us both twenty years ago, made a vital and yet not inexplicable mistake. She confused her envelopes, and the letter which I received was never meant for me. He tells me that when he saw her that afternoon and found out the mistake, he had no thought except to recall me, and thrown himself on my mercy, when the news came that I had sailed.
Destiny who had no weak scruples, had stepped in and sealed Delphine’s mistake for all of time. When he went back to Bruges, Madame Savaresse must have partly guessed his baseness.
I wonder whether she is happy, whether she is dead. So near, and yet so far away - so near, and yet never quite close enough!
Then suddenly, the singing of the nuns. I rose and went out of the church quietly and hastily: Poor woman! so this is how she sought consolation, in religion! Well, there are different ways for different persons - and for me, what is left for me? One takes up one’s life and expiates its errors.
And so to-morrow - Brussels!”
July 14, 2013
Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno CynaraeLast night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mineThere fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shedUpon my soul between the kisses and the wine;And I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, When I awoke and found the dawn was grey:I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind,But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;And I am desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
January 2, 2012
He's a good, romantic poet, maybe not a master. I realized my 1911 copy is signed by the London publisher as a gift to Madelein Edison, very possibly the daughter of Thomas Edison, who traveled with the family to Europe in 1911. Very cool!
November 1, 2013
Wonderful poetry but execrable prose, which I will presume he wrote so he could afford to indulge the poetry. I don't know why this poet is not better known (at least among us non-English majors), since there are some classics within the collection (e.g. Cynara, Carthusians).
March 2, 2013
"I have been faithful to thee Cynara!, in my fashion." This poem and the memoir by Alfred Symons are worth 5 stars alone.
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