Parisian Dream

Á Constantine

The vague and distant imageof this landscape, so terrifying,on which no mortal’s gazedthrilled me again this morning.

Sleep is full of miracles!

By a singular capricefrom that unfolding spectacleI’d banned all shapeless leaf,a painter proud of my artistryI savoured in my picturethe enchanting monotony of metal, marble, water.

Babel of stairs and arcades,it was an infinite palacefull of pools and cascades,falling gold, burnt, or lustreless:and heavy cataracts therelike curtains of crystal,dazzling, hung in airfrom walls of metal.

Not trees, but colonnadescircled the sleeping poolswhere colossal naiads gazedat themselves, as women do.

Between banks of rose and green,the blue water stretched,for millions of leagues to the universe’s edge:there were un-heard of stones,and magic waves: there were,dazzled by everything shown,enormous quivering mirrors!

Impassive and taciturn,

Ganges, in the firmament,poured treasures from the urninto abysses of diamond.

Architect of this spell,

I made a tame ocean swellentirely at my will,through a jewelled tunnel:and all, seemed glossy, cleariridescent: even the shades of black, liquid glory therein light’s crystallised rays.

Not a single star, no traceof a sun even, low in the sky,to illuminate this wondrous placethat shone with intrinsic fire!

And over these shifting wondershovered (oh dreadful novelty!

All for the eye, none for the ear!)the silence of eternity.

Opening eyes filled with flameI saw the horrors of my hovel,and felt the barbs of shamefulcare, re-entering my soul:brutally with gloomy blowsthe clock struck mid-day,and the sky poured shadowson a world, benumbed and grey.