Per me si va nella citta dolente.
Poi di tanto adoprar, di tanti motiD'ogni celeste, ogni terrena cosa,Girando senza posa,Per tornar sempre la donde son mosse;Uso alcuno, alcun fruttoIndovinar non so.
Sola nel mondo eterna, a cui si volveOgni creata cosa,In te, morte, si posaNostra ignuda natura;Lieta no, ma sicuraDell' antico dolor . . .Pero ch' esser beatoNega ai mortali e nega a' morti il fato.
PROEM
Lo, thus, as prostrate, "In the dust I write My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears." Yet why evoke the spectres of black night To blot the sunshine of exultant years? Why disinter dead faith from mouldering hidden? Why break the seals of mute despair unbidden, And wail life's discords into careless ears?
Because a cold rage seizes one at whiles To show the bitter old and wrinkled truth Stripped naked of all vesture that beguiles, False dreams, false hopes, false masks and modes of youth; Because it gives some sense of power and passion In helpless innocence to try to fashion Our woe in living words howe'er uncouth.
Surely I write not for the hopeful young, Or those who deem their happiness of worth, Or such as pasture and grow fat among The shows of life and feel nor doubt nor dearth, Or pious spirits with a God above them To sanctify and glorify and love them, Or sages who foresee a heaven on earth.
For none of these I write, and none of these Could read the writing if they deigned to try; So may they flourish in their due degrees, On our sweet earth and in their unplaced sky. If any cares for the weak words here written, It must be some one desolate, Fate-smitten, Whose faith and hopes are dead, and who would die.
Yes, here and there some weary wanderer In that same city of tremendous night, Will understand the speech and feel a stir Of fellowship in all-disastrous fight; "I suffer mute and lonely, yet another Uplifts his voice to let me know a brother Travels the same wild paths though out of sight."
O sad Fraternity, do I unfold Your dolorous mysteries shrouded from of yore? Nay, be assured; no secret can be told To any who divined it not before: None uninitiate by many a presage Will comprehend the language of the message, Although proclaimed aloud for evermore.
I The City is of Night; perchance of Death But certainly of Night; for never there Can come the lucid morning's fragrant breath After the dewy dawning's cold grey air: The moon and stars may shine with scorn or pity The sun has never visited that city, For it dissolveth in the daylight fair. Dissolveth like a dream of night away; Though present in distempered gloom of thought And deadly weariness of heart all day. But when a dream night after night is brought Throughout a week, and such weeks few or many Recur each year for several years, can any Discern that dream from real life in aught? For life is but a dream whose shapes return, Some frequently, some seldom, some by night And some by day, some night and day: we learn, The while all change and many vanish quite, In their recurrence with recurrent changes A certain seeming order; where this ranges We count things real; such is memory's might. A river girds the city west and south, The main north channel of a broad lagoon, Regurging with the salt tides from the mouth; Waste marshes shine and glister to the moon For leagues, then moorland black, then stony ridges; Great piers and causeways, many noble bridges, Connect the town and islet suburbs strewn. Upon an easy slope it lies at large And scarcely overlaps the long curved crest Which swells out two leagues from the river marge. A trackless wilderness rolls north and west, Savannahs, savage woods, enormous mountains, Bleak uplands, black ravines with torrent fountains; And eastward rolls the shipless sea's unrest. The city is not ruinous, although Great ruins of an unremembered past, With others of a few short years ago More sad, are found within its precincts vast. The street-lamps always burn; but scarce a casement In house or palace front from roof to basement Doth glow or gleam athwart the mirk air cast. The street-lamps burn amid the baleful glooms, Amidst the soundless solitudes immense Of ranged mansions dark and still as tombs. The silence which benumbs or strains the sense Fulfils with awe the soul's despair unweeping: Myriads of habitants are ever sleeping, Or dead, or fled from nameless pestilence! Yet as in some necropolis you find Perchance one mourner to a thousand dead, So there: worn faces that look deaf and blind Like tragic masks of stone. With weary tread, Each wrapt in his own doom, they wander, wander, Or sit foredone and desolately ponder Through sleepless hours with heavy drooping head. Mature men chiefly, few in age or youth, A woman rarely, now and then a child: A child! If here the heart turns sick with ruth To see a little one from birth defiled, Or lame or blind, as preordained to languish Through youthless life, think how it bleeds with anguish To meet one erring in that homeless wild. They often murmur to themselves, they speak To one another seldom, for their woe Broods maddening inwardly and scorns to wreak Itself abroad; and if at whiles it grow To frenzy which must rave, none heeds the clamour, Unless there waits some victim of like glamour, To rave in turn, who lends attentive show. The City is of Night, but not of Sleep; There sweet sleep is not for the weary brain; The pitiless hours like years and ages creep, A night seems termless hell. This dreadful strain Of thought and consciousness which never ceases, Or which some moments' stupor but increases, This, worse than woe, makes wretches there insane. They leave all hope behind who enter there: One certitude while sane they cannot leave, One anodyne for torture and despair; The certitude of Death, which no reprieve Can put off long; and which, divinely tender, But waits the outstretched hand to promptly render That draught whose slumber nothing can bereave1
The City is of Night; perchance of Death But certainly of Night; for never there Can come the lucid morning's fragrant breath After the dewy dawning's cold grey air: The moon and stars may shine with scorn or pity The sun has never visited that city, For it dissolveth in the daylight fair.
Dissolveth like a dream of night away; Though present in distempered gloom of thought And deadly weariness of heart all day. But when a dream night after night is brought Throughout a week, and such weeks few or many Recur each year for several years, can any Discern that dream from real life in aught?
For life is but a dream whose shapes return, Some frequently, some seldom, some by night And some by day, some night and day: we learn, The while all change and many vanish quite, In their recurrence with recurrent changes A certain seeming order; where this ranges We count things real; such is memory's might.
A river girds the city west and south, The main north channel of a broad lagoon, Regurging with the salt tides from the mouth; Waste marshes shine and glister to the moon For leagues, then moorland black, then stony ridges; Great piers and causeways, many noble bridges, Connect the town and islet suburbs strewn.
Upon an easy slope it lies at large And scarcely overlaps the long curved crest Which swells out two leagues from the river marge. A trackless wilderness rolls north and west, Savannahs, savage woods, enormous mountains, Bleak uplands, black ravines with torrent fountains; And eastward rolls the shipless sea's unrest.
The city is not ruinous, although Great ruins of an unremembered past, With others of a few short years ago More sad, are found within its precincts vast. The street-lamps always burn; but scarce a casement In house or palace front from roof to basement Doth glow or gleam athwart the mirk air cast.
The street-lamps burn amid the baleful glooms, Amidst the soundless solitudes immense Of ranged mansions dark and still as tombs. The silence which benumbs or strains the sense Fulfils with awe the soul's despair unweeping: Myriads of habitants are ever sleeping, Or dead, or fled from nameless pestilence!
Yet as in some necropolis you find Perchance one mourner to a thousand dead, So there: worn faces that look deaf and blind Like tragic masks of stone. With weary tread, Each wrapt in his own doom, they wander, wander, Or sit foredone and desolately ponder Through sleepless hours with heavy drooping head.
Mature men chiefly, few in age or youth, A woman rarely, now and then a child: A child! If here the heart turns sick with ruth To see a little one from birth defiled, Or lame or blind, as preordained to languish Through youthless life, think how it bleeds with anguish To meet one erring in that homeless wild.
They often murmur to themselves, they speak To one another seldom, for their woe Broods maddening inwardly and scorns to wreak Itself abroad; and if at whiles it grow To frenzy which must rave, none heeds the clamour, Unless there waits some victim of like glamour, To rave in turn, who lends attentive show.
The City is of Night, but not of Sleep; There sweet sleep is not for the weary brain; The pitiless hours like years and ages creep, A night seems termless hell. This dreadful strain Of thought and consciousness which never ceases, Or which some moments' stupor but increases, This, worse than woe, makes wretches there insane.
They leave all hope behind who enter there: One certitude while sane they cannot leave, One anodyne for torture and despair; The certitude of Death, which no reprieve Can put off long; and which, divinely tender, But waits the outstretched hand to promptly render That draught whose slumber nothing can bereave1
II Because he seemed to walk with an intent I followed him; who, shadowlike and frail, Unswervingly though slowly onward went, Regardless, wrapt in thought as in a vei Thus step for step with lonely sounding feet We travelled many a long dim silent street. At length he paused: a black mass in the gloom, A tower that merged into the heavy sky; Around, the huddled stones of grave and tomb: Some old God's-acre now corruption's sty: He murmured to himself with dull despair, Here Faith died, poisoned by this charnel air. Then turning to the right went on once more And travelled weary roads without suspense; And reached at last a low wall's open door, Whose villa gleamed beyond the foliage dense: He gazed, and muttered with a hard despair, Here Love died, stabbed by its own worshipped pair. Then turning to the right resumed his march, And travelled street and lanes with wondrous strength, Until on stooping through a narrow arch We stood before a squalid house at length: He gazed, and whispered with a cold despair, Here Hope died, starved out in its utmost lair. When he had spoken thus, before he stirred, I spoke, perplexed by something in the signs Of desolation I had seen and heard In this drear pilgrimage to ruined shrines: Where Faith and Love and Hope are dead indeed, Can Life still live? By what doth it proceed? As whom his one intense thought overpowers, He answered coldly, Take a watch, erase The signs and figures of the circling hours, Detach the hands, remove the dial-face; The works proceed until run down; although Bereft of purpose, void of use, still go. Then turning to the right paced on again, And traversed squares and travelled streets whose glooms Seemed more and more familiar to my ken; And reached that sullen temple of the tombs; And paused to murmur with the old despair, Hear Faith died, poisoned by this charnel air. I ceased to follow, for the knot of doubt Was severed sharply with a cruel knife: He circled thus forever tracing out The series of the fraction left of Life; Perpetual recurrence in the scope Of but three terms, dead Faith, dead Love, dead Hope.2
Because he seemed to walk with an intent I followed him; who, shadowlike and frail, Unswervingly though slowly onward went, Regardless, wrapt in thought as in a vei Thus step for step with lonely sounding feet We travelled many a long dim silent street.
At length he paused: a black mass in the gloom, A tower that merged into the heavy sky; Around, the huddled stones of grave and tomb: Some old God's-acre now corruption's sty: He murmured to himself with dull despair, Here Faith died, poisoned by this charnel air.
Then turning to the right went on once more And travelled weary roads without suspense; And reached at last a low wall's open door, Whose villa gleamed beyond the foliage dense: He gazed, and muttered with a hard despair, Here Love died, stabbed by its own worshipped pair.
Then turning to the right resumed his march, And travelled street and lanes with wondrous strength, Until on stooping through a narrow arch We stood before a squalid house at length: He gazed, and whispered with a cold despair, Here Hope died, starved out in its utmost lair.
When he had spoken thus, before he stirred, I spoke, perplexed by something in the signs Of desolation I had seen and heard In this drear pilgrimage to ruined shrines: Where Faith and Love and Hope are dead indeed, Can Life still live? By what doth it proceed?
As whom his one intense thought overpowers, He answered coldly, Take a watch, erase The signs and figures of the circling hours, Detach the hands, remove the dial-face; The works proceed until run down; although Bereft of purpose, void of use, still go.
Then turning to the right paced on again, And traversed squares and travelled streets whose glooms Seemed more and more familiar to my ken; And reached that sullen temple of the tombs; And paused to murmur with the old despair, Hear Faith died, poisoned by this charnel air.
I ceased to follow, for the knot of doubt Was severed sharply with a cruel knife: He circled thus forever tracing out The series of the fraction left of Life; Perpetual recurrence in the scope Of but three terms, dead Faith, dead Love, dead Hope.2
III Although lamps burn along the silent streets, Even when moonlight silvers empty squares The dark holds countless lanes and close retreats; But when the night its sphereless mantle wears The open spaces yawn with gloom abysmal, The sombre mansions loom immense and dismal, The lanes are black as subterranean lairs. And soon the eye a strange new vision learns: The night remains for it as dark and dense, Yet clearly in this darkness it discerns As in the daylight with its natural sense; Perceives a shade in shadow not obscurely, Pursues a stir of black in blackness surely, Sees spectres also in the gloom intense. The ear, too, with the silence vast and deep Becomes familiar though unreconciled; Hears breathings as of hidden life asleep, And muffled throbs as of pent passions wild, Far murmurs, speech of pity or derision; but all more dubious than the things of vision, So that it knows not when it is beguiled. No time abates the first despair and awe, But wonder ceases soon; the weirdest thing Is felt least strange beneath the lawless law Where Death-in-Life is the eternal king; Crushed impotent beneath this reign of terror, Dazed with mysteries of woe and error, The soul is too outworn for wondering.
Although lamps burn along the silent streets, Even when moonlight silvers empty squares The dark holds countless lanes and close retreats; But when the night its sphereless mantle wears The open spaces yawn with gloom abysmal, The sombre mansions loom immense and dismal, The lanes are black as subterranean lairs.
And soon the eye a strange new vision learns: The night remains for it as dark and dense, Yet clearly in this darkness it discerns As in the daylight with its natural sense; Perceives a shade in shadow not obscurely, Pursues a stir of black in blackness surely, Sees spectres also in the gloom intense.
The ear, too, with the silence vast and deep Becomes familiar though unreconciled; Hears breathings as of hidden life asleep, And muffled throbs as of pent passions wild, Far murmurs, speech of pity or derision; but all more dubious than the things of vision, So that it knows not when it is beguiled.
No time abates the first despair and awe, But wonder ceases soon; the weirdest thing Is felt least strange beneath the lawless law Where Death-in-Life is the eternal king; Crushed impotent beneath this reign of terror, Dazed with mysteries of woe and error, The soul is too outworn for wondering.
IV He stood alone within the spacious square Declaiming from the central grassy mound, With head uncovered and with streaming hair, As if large multitudes were gathered round: A stalwart shape, the gestures full of might, The glances burning with unnatural light:— As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: All was black, In heaven no single star, on earth no track; A brooding hush without a stir or note, The air so thick it clotted in my throat; And thus for hours; then some enormous things Swooped past with savage cries and clanking wings: But I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear. As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: Eyes of fire Glared at me throbbing with a starved desire; The hoarse and heavy and carnivorous breath Was hot upon me from deep jaws of death; Sharp claws, swift talons, fleshless fingers cold Plucked at me from the bushes, tried to hold: But I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear. As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: Lo you, there, That hillock burning with a brazen glare; Those myriad dusky flames with points a-glow Which writhed and hissed and darted to and fro; A Sabbath of the Serpents, heaped pell-mell For Devil's roll-call and some fete of Hel Yet I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear. As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: Meteors ran And crossed their javelins on the black sky-span; The zenith opened to a gulf of flame, The dreadful thunderbolts jarred earth's fixed frame; The ground all heaved in waves of fire that surged And weltered round me sole there unsubmerged: Yet I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear. As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: Air once more, And I was close upon a wild sea-shore; Enormous cliffs arose on either hand, The deep tide thundered up a league-broad strand; White foambelts seethed there, wan spray swept and flew; The sky broke, moon and stars and clouds and blue: Yet I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear. As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: On the left The sun arose and crowned a broad crag-cleft; There stopped and burned out black, except a rim, A bleeding eyeless socket, red and dim; Whereon the moon fell suddenly south-west, And stood above the right-hand cliffs at rest: Yet I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear. As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: From the right A shape came slowly with a ruddy light; A woman with a red lamp in her hand, Bareheaded and barefooted on that strand; O desolation moving with such grace! O anguish with such beauty in thy face! I fell as on my bier, Hope travailed with such fear. As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: I was twain, Two selves distinct that cannot join again; One stood apart and knew but could not stir, And watched the other stark in swoon and her; And she came on, and never turned aside, Between such sun and moon and roaring tide: And as she came more near My soul grew mad with fear. As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: Hell is mild And piteous matched with that accursed wild; A large black sign was on her breast that bowed, A broad black band ran down her snow-white shroud; That lamp she held was her own burning heart, Whose blood-drops trickled step by step apart: The mystery was clear; Mad rage had swallowed fear. As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: By the sea She knelt and bent above that senseless me; Those lamp-drops fell upon my white brow there, She tried to cleanse them with her tears and hair; She murmured words of pity, love, and woe, Shee heeded not the level rushing flow: And mad with rage and fear, I stood stonebound so near. As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: When the tide Swept up to her there kneeling by my side, She clasped that corpse-like me, and they were borne Away, and this vile me was left forlorn; I know the whole sea cannot quench that heart, Or cleanse that brow, or wash those two apart: They love; their doom is drear, Yet they nor hope nor fear; But I, what do I here?
He stood alone within the spacious square Declaiming from the central grassy mound, With head uncovered and with streaming hair, As if large multitudes were gathered round: A stalwart shape, the gestures full of might, The glances burning with unnatural light:—
As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: All was black, In heaven no single star, on earth no track; A brooding hush without a stir or note, The air so thick it clotted in my throat; And thus for hours; then some enormous things Swooped past with savage cries and clanking wings: But I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: Eyes of fire Glared at me throbbing with a starved desire; The hoarse and heavy and carnivorous breath Was hot upon me from deep jaws of death; Sharp claws, swift talons, fleshless fingers cold Plucked at me from the bushes, tried to hold: But I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: Lo you, there, That hillock burning with a brazen glare; Those myriad dusky flames with points a-glow Which writhed and hissed and darted to and fro; A Sabbath of the Serpents, heaped pell-mell For Devil's roll-call and some fete of Hel Yet I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: Meteors ran And crossed their javelins on the black sky-span; The zenith opened to a gulf of flame, The dreadful thunderbolts jarred earth's fixed frame; The ground all heaved in waves of fire that surged And weltered round me sole there unsubmerged: Yet I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: Air once more, And I was close upon a wild sea-shore; Enormous cliffs arose on either hand, The deep tide thundered up a league-broad strand; White foambelts seethed there, wan spray swept and flew; The sky broke, moon and stars and clouds and blue: Yet I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: On the left The sun arose and crowned a broad crag-cleft; There stopped and burned out black, except a rim, A bleeding eyeless socket, red and dim; Whereon the moon fell suddenly south-west, And stood above the right-hand cliffs at rest: Yet I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: From the right A shape came slowly with a ruddy light; A woman with a red lamp in her hand, Bareheaded and barefooted on that strand; O desolation moving with such grace! O anguish with such beauty in thy face! I fell as on my bier, Hope travailed with such fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: I was twain, Two selves distinct that cannot join again; One stood apart and knew but could not stir, And watched the other stark in swoon and her; And she came on, and never turned aside, Between such sun and moon and roaring tide: And as she came more near My soul grew mad with fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: Hell is mild And piteous matched with that accursed wild; A large black sign was on her breast that bowed, A broad black band ran down her snow-white shroud; That lamp she held was her own burning heart, Whose blood-drops trickled step by step apart: The mystery was clear; Mad rage had swallowed fear.
As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: By the sea She knelt and bent above that senseless me; Those lamp-drops fell upon my white brow there, She tried to cleanse them with her tears and hair; She murmured words of pity, love, and woe, Shee heeded not the level rushing flow: And mad with rage and fear, I stood stonebound so near.
As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: When the tide Swept up to her there kneeling by my side, She clasped that corpse-like me, and they were borne Away, and this vile me was left forlorn; I know the whole sea cannot quench that heart, Or cleanse that brow, or wash those two apart: They love; their doom is drear, Yet they nor hope nor fear; But I, what do I here?
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