Parisian Dream

Á Constantine Guys

I

The vague and distant image

of this landscape, so terrifying,

on which no mortal’s gazed

thrilled me again this morning.

Sleep is full of miracles!

By a singular caprice

from that unfolding spectacle

I’d banned all shapeless leaf,

a painter proud of my artistry

I savoured in my picture

the enchanting monotony

of metal, marble, water.

Babel of stairs and arcades,

it was an infinite palace

full of pools and cascades,

falling gold, burnt, or lustreless:

and heavy cataracts there

like curtains of crystal,

dazzling, hung in air

from walls of metal.

Not trees, but colonnades

circled the sleeping pools

where colossal naiads gazed

at 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 urn

into abysses of diamond.

Architect of this spell,

I made a tame ocean swell

entirely at my will,

through a jewelled tunnel:

and all, seemed glossy, clear

iridescent: even the shades

of black, liquid glory there

in light’s crystallised rays.

Not a single star, no trace

of a sun even, low in the sky,

to illuminate this wondrous place

that shone with intrinsic fire!

And over these shifting wonders

hovered (oh dreadful novelty!

All for the eye, none for the ear!)

the silence of eternity.

II

Opening eyes filled with flame

I saw the horrors of my hovel,

and felt the barbs of shameful

care, re-entering my soul:

brutally with gloomy blows

the clock struck mid-day,

and the sky poured shadows

on a world, benumbed and grey.