kiosk, the military band.
The shakos nod the time of the quadrilles.
The flaunting dandy strolls about the stand.
The notary, half unconscious of his seals.

On the green seats, small groups of grocermen,
Absorbed, their sticks scooping a little hole
Upon the path, talk market prices; then
Take up a cue: I think, upon the whole. . . .

The loutish roughs are larking on the grass.
The sentimental trooper, with a rose
Between his teeth, seeing a baby, grows
More tender, with an eye upon the nurse.

Unbuttoned, like a student, I follow
A couple of girls along the chesnut row.
They know I am following, for they turn and laugh,
Half impudent, half shy, inviting chaff.

I do not say a word. I only stare
At their round, fluffy necks. I follow where
The shoulders drop; I struggle to define
The subtle torso's hesitating line.

Only my rustling tread, deliberate, slow;
The rippled silence from the still leaves drips.
They think I am an idiot, they speak low;
— I feel faint kisses creeping on my lips.

SENSATION

I walk the alleys trampled through the wheat,
Through whole blue summer eves, on velvet grass.
Dreaming, I feel the dampness at my feet;
The breezes bathe my naked head and pass.

I do not think a single thought, nor say
A word; but in my soul the mists upcurl
Of infinite love. I will go far away
With nature, happily, as with a girl.

À UNE MADONE.  IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH
OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE

Madone! my lady, I will build for thee
A grotto altar of my misery.
Deep will I scoop, where darkest lies my heart,
Far from the world's cupidity apart,

A niche, with mercy stained, and streaked with gold,
Where none thy statue's wonder may behold.

Then, for thy head, I will fashion a tiar,
A filigree of verse, with many a star

Of crystal rhyme its heavy folds upon.
And jealousy, O mortal! my Madone,

Shall cut for thee a gown, of dreadful guise,
Which like a portcullis, shall veil thy thighs;

Rude, heavy curtain, faced with bitter fears,
Broidered, in place of pearls, with all my tears.

And, of my worship, shoes will I design;
Two satin shoes, to case thy feet divine,

Which, while their precious freight they softly hold,
Shall guard the imprint in a faithful mould.

If I should fail to forge a silver moon,
I with my art, for thee to tread upon,

Then will I place the writhing beast that hangs
Upon my heart, and tears it with his fangs,

Where thou may'st crush his head, and smile supreme,
O majesty! all potent to redeem.

And all my thoughts, like candles, shalt thou see
before thine altar spread, Star of the Sea!

Starring thine azure roof with points of fire.
With nought hut thee to cherish and admire,

So shall my soul in plaintive fumes arise
Of incense ever to thy pitying eyes.
 

Last, that indeed a Mary thou may'st be,
And that my love be mixed with cruelty—

O foul voluptuousness! when I have made
Of every deadly sin a deadlier blade,

Torturer filled with pain will I draw near
The target of thy breast, and, sick with fear,

Deliberately plant them all where throbs
Thy bleeding heart, and stifling with its sobs.

FEMMES DAMNÉES

Like moody beasts they lie along the sands;,
Look where the sky against the sea-rim clings:
Foot stretches out to foot, and groping hands
Have languors soft and bitter shudderings.

Some, smitten hearts with the long secrecies,
On