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THE LIP

THE LIP

One day in half-slumbrous raving
Where I saw strange fancies skip,
I saw in a dream, by no light's gleam,
A man with only one lip –
Absolutely, absolutely, absolutely,
Absolutely with only one lip.

I remember well that he had no face
Nor a nose with a usual tip;
He had nor eyes, nor cheks, nor hair
But only, only one lip –
Only one, only one, only one,
Only one, one, one lip.

Can ye think of it without terror?
No other lip did slip
Into the vision, nor was it a lack:
There was only, only one lip.
Could you see him as I you would grow mad.
That man with only one lip.


Alexander Search

January, 2nd 1908
👁️ 4 324

10 - THE POEM

THE POEM

There sleeps a poem in my mind
That shall my entire soul express.
I feel it vague as sound and wind
Yet sculptured in full definiteness.

It has no stanza, verse or word.
Ev'n as I dream it, it is not.
'Tis a mere feeling of it, blurred,
And but a happy mist round thought.

Day and night in my mystery
I dream and read and spell it over,
And ever round words' brink in me
Its vague completeness seems to hover.

I know it never shall be writ.
I know I know not what it is.
But I am happy dreaming it,
And false bliss, although false, is bliss.
👁️ 4 383

XXIX - My weary life, that lives unsatisfied

My weary life, that lives unsatisfied
On the foiled off-brink of being e'er but this,
To whom the power to will hath been denied
And the will to renounce doth also miss;
My sated life, with having nothing sated,
In the motion of moving poised aye,
Within its dreams from its own dreams abated –
This life let the Gods change or take away.
For this endless succession of empty hours,
Like deserts after deserts, voidly one,
Doth undermine the very dreaming powers
And dull even thought's active inaction,
Tainting with fore-unwilled will the dreamed act
Twice thus removed from the unobtained fact.
👁️ 4 190

36 - LA CHERCHEUSE

LA CHERCHEUSE

Pale with the sense of being mortal,
Now dost thou, passing yearning's glades,
Knock with cold hands at the hushed portal
Of the closed palace of the shades.
Thy hands fall and thy wide eyes grope.
Oh, let me kiss thy feet and hope!

Let us not wish to understand,
Bravely despair even of despair,
Cold unfelt hand in cold dead hand,
Let us set out for mere Somewhere,
With bodies by the cold made none,
By nigh to invisibleness done.

Perhaps, thus losing earthly goal,
Our sense of us numbed to innerness,
Sudden we shall find ourselves all Soul,
Hand in hand spirits, waked to bliss,
Having, through some Gate not in space,
Lo! Lapsed to everlasting grace.
👁️ 4 070

21 - SISTER CECILY

SISTER CECILY

Alas for Sister Cecily!
To whom prayeth she,
Till feet are numb and pained knees torn
And pale lips inward driven,
Eye-lifting orisons at morn,
Low-lidded prayers at even?

She prayeth to Mary Mother and Queen,
Who still hath been
Who keepeth child and maid from harm,
Our Lady with eyes of dole,
With a lily along her conscious arm
And a virgin's aureole.

For of the Virgin it is said
That she hath bled
At seven pains for her sad son
And therefore for us all,
Whose souls by heavenly hands are spun
Out of the same white wool.

So to her prayeth Cecily
That all may be
Washed pure in the perennial fount
Where the saints meet,
And given to reach the Shining Mount
Though with torn feet.

And though she know me not, nor pray
For me, oh! may
Her prayer for man's woe make me part
Of what she says,
So a vague rest fall on my heart
Because she prays.
👁️ 4 081

1 - THE MAD FIDDLER

THE MAD FIDDLER

I

THE MAD FIDDLER


THE MAD FIDDLER

Not from the northern road,
Not from the southern way
First his wild music flowed
Into the village that day.

He suddenly was in the lane,
The people came out to hear
He suddenly went, and in vain
Their hopes wished him to appear.

His music strange did fret
Each heart to wish 'twas free.
If was not a melody yet
It was not no melody.

Somewhere far away
Somewhere far outside
Being forced to live, they
Felt this tune replied.

Replied to that longing
All have in their breasts,
To lost sense belonging
To forgotten quests.

The happy wife now knew
That she had married ill,
The glad fond lover grew
Weary of loving still,

The maid and the boy felt glad
That they had dreaming only
The lone hearts that were sad
Felt somewhere less lonely.

In each soul woke the flower
Whose touch leaves earthless dust,
The soul's husband's first hour,
The thing completing us,

The shadow that comes to bless
From kissed depths unexpressed,
The luminous restlessness
That is better than rest.

As he came, he went.
They felt him but half-be.
Then he was quietly blent
With silence and memory.

Sleep left again their laughter,
Their tranced hope ceased to last,
And but a small time after
They knew not he had passed.

Yet when the sorrow of living,
Because life is not willed,
Comes back in dreams' hours, giving
A sense of life being chilled,

Suddenly each remembers –
It glows like a coming moon
On where their dream-life embers –
The mad fiddlers tune.
👁️ 4 600

XXXIII - He that goes back does, since he goes, advance,

He that goes back does, since he goes, advance,
Though he doth not advance who goeth back,
And he that seeks, though he on nothing chance.
May still by words be said to find a lack.
This paradox of having, that is nought
In the world's meaning of the things it screens,
Is yet true of the substance of pure thought
And there means something by the nought it means.
For thinking nought does on nought being confer,
As giving not is acting not to give,
And, to the same unbribed true thought, to err
Is to find truth, though by its negative.
So why call this world false, if false to be
Be to be aught, and being aught Being to be?
👁️ 3 948

13 - SUSPENSE

SUSPENSE

I dream, and strange dim powers
My shining sleep assist;
A sound as of coming showers
Creeps towards me, loudly hist;
And lo! all my forgotten hours
Lie round me like a mist.

The ghosts of my dead selves
Weave round me a false mesh;
My undreamed dreams, pale elves,
Are now part of my flesh;
And all I am my unselfing shelves
On dreams, out of my reach.

I touch impalpable things;
I am sunny with past days;
Remote sounds, like near wings,
Flank my blind spirit's ways;
And from the other side of the big hill rings
A bell that summons to praise.

But I am sick of dreaming,
Weary of being the same
Over desert spaces of seeming,
Unwilling player of a game
With life, far star but gleaming
On dead earths without name.

Fierce dreams of something else!
Frenzy to go away
(O wave in me that swells!)
From life where life must stay –
Life ever at today!

Some other place and thing!
Not a life! not mine so!
O to be a wind, a wing,
A bark me there to bring!

Whither? If I could know,
I would not wish to go.
👁️ 4 406

XXXV - Good. I have done. My heart weighs. I am sad.

Good. I have done. My heart weighs. I am sad.
The outer day, void statue of lit blue,
Is altogether outward, other, glad
At mere being not-I (so my aches construe).
I, that have failed in everything, bewail
Nothing this hour but that I have bewailed,
For in the general fate what is't to fail?
Why, fate being past for Fate, 'tis but to have failed.
Whatever hap or stop, what matters it,
Sith to the mattering our will bringeth nought?
With the higher trifling let us world our wit,
Conscious that, if we do t, that was the lot
The regular stars bound us to, when they stood
Godfathers to our birth and to our blood.
👁️ 4 116

When shall we rest?

When shall we rest?
The ceaseless waves
They have no quest.
The trees peace-ripe.
Their lifeless life
From sorrow saves.

When shall we go?
Wither? We care
Nothing to know.
Sorrow is here.
Aught may us cheer
Now of dim there.

What in us shall
Cease and leave peace?
Life holds in thrall
Our joy like pain,
Our loss-like gain,
Our stayed release.

Love cannot bless.
Bliss cannot live.
Joy's short caress
Passes like wind
Suddenly thinned
We dream and grieve.

Outward from us
There lies the land
Less luminous,
Where we may rest,
Leaving all quest,
Wishing no strand.

Ready the bark
For our repose.
Let us embark.
The sea is lone?
We are alone,
Pain but pain shows.

Remember nought.
Cease like a light
Suddenly not.
Merge like a dream
Into the stream
Of its own night.


25/04/1917
👁️ 4 382

Comentários (17)

Iniciar sessão ToPostComment
Gabriel
Gabriel
2025-09-17

What?

ademir domingos zanotelli
ademir domingos zanotelli
2025-07-27

Simplesmente um pensador ( tão grande) pois todos nós temos máscaras, nossos sentimentos são todos ocultos na nossa eterna alma. fantástico este texto para sua época vivida.

rodrigl
rodrigl
2023-12-01

cmt

tomaslopes
tomaslopes
2023-06-23

O maior e mais pensador poeta para a sua antiga época. O maior e mais revolucionista da literatura portuguesa, com os seus poemas e textos que enchem a alma de pensamentos. Tem um forma única de se expressar e ditar o que vem da sua alma, como ele dizia " Quem tem alma não tem calma".

mcegonha
mcegonha
2023-04-21

O profeta dos poetas!