The portraits below were painted three years after their wedding in Paris in , after the Battle of Waterloo. This was the age of the Romantic Poets—among others, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley and Keats, and it is interesting to see their heightened sensibility and emotional outpourings reflected in the memoirs of military men such as Harry Smith and his fellow rifleman, Sir John Kincaid.
Nor could it be abused, for she stood by the side of an angel! A being more transcendingly lovely I had never before seen—one more amiable I have never yet known…….. His passionate verse and brooding, flawed hero appealed to feminine hearts while, as can be seen in the portrait below from , he knew how to present himself in the most romantic light.
Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, all was not well between the UK and its former colony and, on 18 June , the United States declared war on the United Kingdom. On 14 September he entered Moscow.
But what might have been supposed to be one of his greatest triumphs, turned out to be his downfall. The Russians had evacuated the city, withdrawing also the civic authorities but leaving behind them a small detachment charged with firing the city. Composed mainly of wooden buildings, Moscow was burnt almost completely to the ground. Napoleon was left with no choice but to retreat along the same route he had taken to reach the city and which had been denuded of supplies, including fodder for the horses.
After almost ten years, the tide of war had turned. To read previous posts in this series, click on The Regency Decade in the list of categories on the right and scroll down. About two thousand guests were invited to this sumptuous feast, where a real stream purled between floral banks down the length of the main table, affording those privileged to sit there with glimpses of the silver and gold fish that swam therein.
So keen was he to display this magnificence that for three days afterwards, tickets were issued permitting visitors to visit Carlton House On the final day some thirty-thousand availed themselves of this privilege. Blue Velvet Room Carlton House If ever there was a match made in hell, it was theirs. Pray get me a glass of brandy. In , the princess lived with her mother at Kensington. In November however, the Prince Regent is recorded as leading off the dance with his daughter at a party given by the Duchess of York at Oatlands. This injury required him to recuperate at Oatlands for almost a month.
Nobody believed in the sprain; the most popular story being that he had grossly insulted Lady Yarmouth at the ball and been soundly thrashed by her husband. At the same time there was unrest among the working classes, in particular among the textile workers of Nottingham many of whom had lost their employment, partly because of a decrease in demand and partly due to the introduction of labour-saving automated looms and knitting machines.
But just as the protestors were unsuccessful in blocking the march of technology, so were the authorities unable to prevent workers from continuing to fight for better pay and working conditions. Although it would take a century, eventually Labour would replace the Whigs by then known as the Liberals as one of the two major parties in the UK parliament. One significant event in passed without fanfares of any sort. I have had two sheets to correct, but the last only brings us to W. On the continent, the French and allied troops warred in Spain, here a victory and there a defeat with the year ending in stalemate.
I write Regency novels. This is shorthand for saying I write historical novels set in England in the second decade of the nineteenth century, a time of unprecedented change that continues to affect our modern lives. In this series of blogs, we will look behind the scenes to discover what makes this decade tick. Let us start with a snapshot of the UK on 31 December All was not well in the island kingdom.
Having lapsed in and out of insanity for over two decades, King George III, sober paterfamilias, was finally deemed incapable of undertaking any affairs of state. Preparations were set in train to appoint as Regent his eldest son and heir, the affable, extravagant and adulterous Prince of Wales. The country had been at war with France since Across the English Channel, the French Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte had consolidated his hold on the European Continent; his sphere of influence extending west across the Iberian Peninsula, north into Sweden where one of his generals, Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte, had been elected crown prince, and eastwards through modern Germany, Italy, Austria, Hungary and Poland to the borders of the Russian and Ottoman Empires.
The only ray of light was provided by Lord Wellington whose Peninsular army was driving that of the French General Massena out of Portugal and into Spain. Back at home, the bulk of wealth, power and influence lay in the hands of the aristocracy and landed gentry who also controlled the established Church of England, the universities and the military and legal professions.
In a study carried out two years later, in , these classes made up 7. Unsurprisingly, they resisted any attempts to reform a system that worked well for them but not so well for the rest of the country. Apart from formal Court dress which remained unchanged as long as the elderly Queen Charlotte was alive, the vast skirts and cumbersome hoops of the previous century had yielded to the classical styles copied from revolutionary and imperial France while gentlemen had abandoned their silks and brocades for boots, buckskin breeches and riding coats.
Did these lighter, looser clothes lead to a lighter, looser way of life? The Regency was certainly one of the great party decades. Perhaps this was due to the shift in the dates of the London Season, the months that the upper classes spent in London while Parliament was sitting. Every peer had a seat in the House of Lords and where the noble families led, others followed. During the 18th century Parliament had sat from November to May. From onwards, the opening of Parliament veered towards February and the session extended into July or even August. Night was turned into day.
Eight p. Over the coming months, we shall experience the highs and lows of the Regency year by year. I hope you will join me and look forward to your comments. Some of these songs may be familiar from sessions in an Irish pub, from film soundtracks, from school choir, early music lessons or from old recordings of parlour music but two hundred years ago Moore's Irish Melodies were heard in every Regency drawing-room and parlour. U nrest was brewing in Ireland. Moore, who was sympathetic to the cause of the United Irishmen, was confined with Illness when rebellion broke out in It was an immediate hit and within a month the poet had been introduced to the Prince himself.
When he commenced, every breath was almost hushed, lest a note should be lost. Eliza Rennie. He appears to have had the knack of seeming to improvise his accompaniment, creating an extraordinary intimacy and bond with his listeners. His delivery of the words rich and delicious…….. William Gardiner.
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And this was no fly-by-night success. In his prefatory letter to Volume III of the Melodies, Moore wrote, It has been said that the tendency of this publication is mischievous, and that I have chosen these airs but as a vehicle of dangerous politics……To those who identify nationality with treason, and who see, in every effort for Ireland, a system of hostility towards England—to those, too, who nursed in the gloom of prejudice, are alarmed by the faintest gleam of liberality that threatens to disturb their darkness……. To such men I shall not deign to apologize for the warmth of any political sentiment, which may occur in these pages.
Chloe, Ann and Cynthia were gathered around the pianoforte, comparing music and trying snatches of melody. Their voices blended charmingly and, when they finished with a poignant yet defiant rendition of The Minstrel Boy there was heartfelt applause and congratulations. I have selected two which to me best convey his original intention. The Melodies were published in ten volumes between and The portrait of Thomas Moore and text of Oh!
Breathe not his Name are from the five volume set of his works published in Paris by Galignani in which includes the lyrics of volumes 1 to VII of the Melodies. Thank you for visiting my web-site. Composed in the s for Pope Urban VIII, it soon became famous for its ethereal ornamentation but for almost a hundred and fifty years succeeding popes and papal musicians jealously guarded the score. Miss Wilmot was a young Irish woman who accompanied Lord and Lady Mount Cashell on their tour of the Continent in during the brief peace with revolutionary France.
Her journal, edited by Thomas U Sadleir M. Here is what she says—spelling, punctuation etc are as in the original. This ceremony[ Tenebrae ] coming late in the evening, every Lady is drest in deep mourning with a black veil, and is handed into the place set apart for her, the gentlemen sitting at the opposite side. There are many recordings of the Miserere available.
Here is a short extract which I have chosen because it was recorded in the Sistine Chapel and shows some of the frescos. Unusually, the article was not accompanied by a portrait of the prince but of Princess Charlotte and the editors lost no time in coming to the point.
We are to present our readers with a demi-official announcement of a proposed alliance which, it is said, will be instantly submitted for the approval of Parliament. It is confidently stated that a matrimonial arrangement has actually taken place, in behalf of the presumptive heiress of the British throne, on the one part,—and a Prince of the house of Saxe-Cobourg on the other.
Royal Wedding Fever had broken out. The robe the pink overdress is worn over a white satin slip flounced with crape and finished with blond. The headdress is described as a bridal veil, fastened with a brooch of pearl and pink topazes. None of this items had anything to do with the national dress of the Cobourg inhabitants right but, then as now, a royal connection could only be beneficial to a dress designer. A fine work it may be, but it certainly suggests that he is much older than twenty-six!
The date of the wedding was 2 May. But that is not all. The Royal Bride, happy in obtaining him whom her heart had selected, and whom consenting friends had approved, wore on her countenance that tranquil and chastened joy which a female so situated could not fail to experience. It was crowned with a most superb wreath of brilliants, forming rose-buds with their leaves. Over ten-and-a-half-pages, the magazine lists the attendees and the presentations before describing the dresses of the royal family and selected members of the nobility and gentry. The couple married not in a church or chapel but in the crimson drawing room at Carlton House, the London Residence of the Prince Regent, shortly after nine p.
The crowd in the Park exceeded all description. The great crimson room….. The whole of the foreign ambassadors and ministers were specifically invited……. Apart from members of the royal family and the foreign ambassadors, the Dukes of Orleans and Bourbon and the great officers of the household were present.
Her Royal Highness the Princess Charlotte advanced to the altar with much steadiness and went through the ceremony with great clearness, so as to be heard distinctly by every person present. The Prince Leopold was not heard so distinctly. Following a round of congratulations, the bride and bridegroom retired arm in arm, and soon after set off for Oatlands, which they reached at ten minutes before twelve. The June issue opens with a portrait of the bridal couple returning from the altar, paired with the wish that this charming Princess and her illustrious partner may long continue to enjoy that delightful union of sentiment, and that unchanging love which they pledged at the altar.
And may the silken and flowery bands of Hymen be every succeeding hour more firmly entwined by the strong and indissoluble ties of mutual constancy and increased esteem. However, fickle fashion has already moved on. Apart from the extremely purple prose, the magazine's coverage of the royal wedding was very similar to that of today.
There was no walk down the aisle of a packed church to a bridegroom waiting impatiently at the altar. C Moore M. Harry was not quite twenty-eight at Waterloo. The two volumes of the autobiography continue the story of his military career in Ireland, Nova Scotia, South Africa and India. Where possible, Juana accompanied him on his new assignments the city of Ladysmith in KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa, is called after her and they remained a devoted couple until his death, and beyond.
She cherished his memory until her own death twelve years later and is buried with him in his birthplace of Whittlesey. Both volumes are illustrated with portraits and maps. The arms granted to Harry in are embossed in gold on the red cover see image below. The two supporters are soldiers of the 52nd Regiment and the Rifle Brigade.
Although cheaper reprints are available, there is something special about such a splendid edition and I look forward to re-reading it. It is a wonderful addition to my library and I was delighted to find this contemporary review of it which shows how well it was received on publication. The above print dating from to beautifully captures the Regency waltz, a dance that did not meet with universal approval in its day, as is evident from the accompanying verses, by Sir H. Sir, she's yours; from the grape you have press'd the soft blue, From the rose you have shaken the tremulous dew; What you've touched you may take.
Pretty waltzer—adieu! Sir H. An anonymous author however soon sprang to their defence. Then O! Lady Caroline Lamb reported morning dancing parties to practise waltzes and quadrilles in Melbourne House in It was at this time that she met Byron and they plunged into a passionate affair. Unable to dance himself due to his club foot, he forbade her to waltz and early in , published anonymously a two hundred line satire called The Waltz. It takes a swipe at many of the political issues of the day, but does not fail to emphasise the unseemly nature of the dance.
Above, dancing at Vauxhall Gardens. By-and-by they stopped a bit, and I thought they would sit or fall down;—but no; with Mrs. But the advance of the waltz was not to be halted. Here he sets out detailed instructions for a series of 'attitudes' or figures, as they would be called today. Couples should form a circle and follow the same sequence of attitudes, he suggests, thus turning the waltz into a communal dance and robbing it of the dangerous individuality and opportunity for illicit intimacy otherwise afforded to each couple.
Here is its first appearance: Where the devil had Lallie learnt to waltz? He knew the waltz was all the rage but, damn it, could she not have told him she was taking lessons? They could have learnt together if it came to that. As the dance progressed he became more irate, especially when the couple danced side to side, both facing away but with flirtatious backwards glances. Now Fitzmaurice turned her so that they both stepped forward, her back to his torso.
Hugo clenched his teeth at the sight. As the century wore on, the waltz became both faster and simpler. Gone were Wilson's nine attitudes that were to be danced almost balletically. In came the closed position and revolving steps that continue to distinguish it today. Angelica Kauffman R. An Inspiration for Regency Fashion? She was the only child of the Austrian painter and muralist Joseph Johann Kauffmann whose assistant she became at an early age, travelling with him to Switzerland, Austria and Italy, where she became a member of the Academies of Bologna, Florence, Rome and Venice.
A gifted linguist and musician, both beautiful and charming, she was soon in demand among British visitors to Rome. In she moved to England and soon established herself both in artistic and society circles. When Zoffany later came to paint his portrait of The Academicians of the Royal Academy , he grouped his subjects in a studio, including in the composition two male models, one nude and the other almost nude.
To avoid any hint of impropriety, Angelica and her sister-member Mary Moser were shown not standing among their male peers but as portraits high on the wall of the studio. It would take years for another woman to be admitted to the Academy with the election of Dame Laura Knight in Although a skilled painter of portraits, Angelica regarded herself chiefly as a history painter, i.
To succeed, the artist had to be well read in all these areas, and able to portray the human body in classical poses and dress or lack of it , the latter requirement generally preventing women from attempting to succeed in this genre. Paris and Oenone Engraving Franc. Bartolozzi after Angelica Kauffman. Her paintings of graceful women in flowing, classical draperies became enormously popular and were reproduced as affordable stipple engravings not only in London but also in Berlin, Dresden, Rome, Florence, Turin, Paris, Vienna and Zurich.
I cannot but wonder whether her paintings were the inspiration for the neo-classical fashions of the early nineteenth century. Certainly, this fashion plate echoes their style. Angelica's first foray into matrimony was unfortunate. In she secretly married a Count Frederick de Horn who turned out to be a con-man and fortune-hunter and the marriage was declared invalid the following year. Once bitten, twice shy—before marrying the Venetian painter Antonio Zucchi in , she had a marriage contract drawn up that gave her control of her finances. She and Zucchi left London in , later settling in Rome where she continued to enjoy great success.
She completed her last large-scale commission in and died in Rome in Childless and widowed , in her will she arranged to continue her charitable work as well as leaving legacies to her Kauffmann relatives. Henry and Maria have let the sun go down on their anger. Dawn does not bring any improvement. Desperation Breakfast renews the quarrels of my fable, She spoils the tea, and he upsets the table. Unfortunately we are not shown what happens next, but it looks as if their parents got together. Reconciliation Now for a Kiss!
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But I am not sure that the author is convinced of his motto, for he finishes with the images from the title pages, as if to remind us that this is a cautionary tale. And rot, and rot!! And hereby hangs a tale!! And so we come to the end of our story. It casts an interesting light on the Regency view of romantic love.
Is Henry a civilian Wickham Pride and Prejudice do you think, or just immature? Will Henry and Maria be able to develop a reasonable relationship or are they condemned to live beside rather than with each other for the rest of their marriage? I think this tale was written for girls, warning them not to fall victim to a smooth-talking suitor.
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From the Corpsegates, CD HADES Inbreed Aborted Divinity? DEMO 7. DEMO CASS 6. MCD 4. But when your saliva Spills over your teeth, Like the spring-melt rising Of some glacial creek,. That Bohemian wine, tart And all-conquering, Scatters stars in my heart With its fine liquid stream! Do you remember what we saw That summer morning mild? A loathsome corpse beneath the wall, Its flesh was black as bile. Legs sticking up, it showed itself, A woman without shame, Its belly swollen like a bell, A carrion displayed. Beneath the sun it broiled and bent, A charnel slab of meat That sweated rot from every rent, Decaying in the heat.
The sky was fair as in a scene Of flowers without taint; The corpse's stench was so obscene You thought that you would faint. The maggots in disordered rows Of Pandemonium Swarmed up its belly like a robe That glistened in the sun;. They formed a liquid flowing cloak By which that corpse was dressed, As if it lived again, and broached Black flies with every breath.
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And from that world strange music ricked, A buzzing in the wind, Like rushing water, or the clicks Of grain in winnowing. Its form was changing like a dream Of some old memory lost; A sketch upon an ancient sheet Of canvas, ripped and tossed. Behind some rocks, a restless kit Watched us with heaving breast, As she held back to claim a bit Of offal that she'd left. And then, O beauty, tell the worms That kiss your pretty face How well I sang the precious turns Of my sweet love's embrace! I've nothing left, my love; to You I pray! My heart has fallen into the abyss, A mournful world of shadows, black and grey, Where blasphemy and horror writhe and hiss.
For half the year, the sun witholds its heat, The other half, a dark night covers all: No animals or flowers, woods or streams, A land more barren than the northern pole. There is no horror in the world exceeds The cruelty of that sun, dark and cold, And that great night, like Chaos come again;. I lie awake and turn upon my bed, And grudge the sleep of every animal; Time's twisted skein unravels all too slow! You stab me like a poisoned knife That pierces my defenceless heart; You overcome me like a swarm Of serpents in the night. You make your bed upon my soul And pierce my heart upon your stake; You bind me to your twisted folds Like convicts to their chains,.
Or reckless gamblers to their games, Besotted drunkards to their wine, Foul carrion to clinging lice, And sickliness to pain. I sought the swift and sudden knife, Or poison merciful, to free Myself from you, and you from me, And both of us from life. The poison and the knife Rejected my obtuse conceit: "You are not worthy to receive The freedom you desire -. If you could extirpate her life, You'd still embrace throughout the night Her bloodless body, to revive The corpse of your Vampire! Come, cruel soul, and lie upon my breast, Tiger of musk, lion of indolence; My nerveless fingers tremble to caress The tangle of your dark-haired wantonness;.
Upon the sheets impregnate with your scent, More than I want to live, I want to rest! Inhaling, like a withered flower's lament, The dry perfume of love's abandonment. I want to lie as careless as the dead, Sleeping to wake, and wake to sleep again, And lavish kisses sweet and innocent Upon the Idol's bronze and polished flesh. To swallow any faint despairing cry, There's nothing like the abyss of your bed; The River Lethe from your lip extends Oblivion: your kisses stupify.
I'll bow obedient to Providence, And drink without complaint the cup it sends, A zealous martyr whose devotion lends More fury to the fires of punishment. And I will sip, to drown my holy rage, Good hemlock, wine of dark forgetfulness, From those delightful nipples on your chest That never held a heart within its cage. Last night I lay beside a wretched whore, And dreamed about the woman that I loved; Beside a paid-for body, bought and sold, I slept as if a corpse beside a corpse,. And conjured, in her den, your gaiety, Your air of grace with mastery endowed, The scented hair that drifts across your brow, The treasure of your troubled memory.
I want to touch your body in the night, And kiss you like a consecrated queen; My love for you would rise to ecstasy,. If only, cruel woman, I could prise One heartfelt tear from every broken dream To wash the calculation from your eyes. Poor shadowed beauty, when you cower at last Beneath a monument of polished stone - Confined beneath a sunken rainy tomb, A chamber for discarded courtesans -.
The stone that weighs upon your trembling flanks Will hold the limbs that once ran free and wild, The heart that beat with insolent desire; Your grave, the poet's strictest confidant,. Unceasingly forever will regale You with the wisdom from its secret store: "When you were living, you could well ignore. The sorrows that the silent dead display; Now verses that unheeded poets made Gnaw on your trembling body, like remorse.
Recline, proud cat, upon my loving breast; Retract your claws, and let me rest Within the metalled agate of your eyes. For when my fingers leisurely caress The spine extending underneath my touch, I tingle with your fur's electric shock,. And see, beloved pet with eyes of gold, The spirit of my woman, dark and cold: From head to foot, a perilous perfume That swirls around her body till I drown.
We fought each other, tooth and claw and nail, My friend and I, all in the name of love; In such a battle, no one can prevail, Although you might have thought that you had won. Our blades are broken, like our shining youth. An ageing heart, a disregarded friend, Her lacquered nails and silver sharpened teeth Cry down the years, and she will be avenged:. A feral lynx, a panther in the trees, She sank her claws, and would not let us go. We tear apart, and thorns display our skins;. A hellish gulf is peopled with our friends, Cruel Amazon! Among their whitened bones Hatred and love are all the same to me.
O well of memory, O heart's delight, O Love that I remember, ever green!
The sweetness of your touch by candlelight, Two hearts anointed by the evening, O well of memory, O heart's delight. A glowing ember kissed the fallen night That rested on your starlit balcony. So soft your breast, so loud your beating heart; We spoke as lovers do, of everything. A glowing ember kissed the fallen night. The sun descended in the evening - How powerful the time, how deep the space!
I came to you as if you were my queen, And I the king within your bright embrace. The sun descended in the evening. Within a twilight room the stars uncovering Your eyes revealed the mirrors of my soul. I swear to me you were, then, everything. The rivers of our passion merged and flowed, Within a twilight room the stars uncovering. I loved you in the stillness of the night, Your beauty and your sweetness made me sing. I turned to you as if with second sight, And poised above your body, hovering; I loved you in the stillness of the night.
The promises we made, the things we said -- How will they last, when evening's work is done? Bathed in the deep, the morning sun ascends To kiss the heavens with his fiery love: The promises we made, the things we said. The sun's eclipsed, like you, dear Lunatic. It doesn't matter; wrap up in a veil, Or sleep, or smoke, whatever, as you will; Indulge your boredom, pester us with gloom,.
I love you as you are. But if you feel Like promenading in the foolish crowd, Go like a star escaping from its cloud, A dagger liberated from its sheath,. Go wander underneath the chandeliers, Kindle desire in every passing fool; I am your man in every vagrant mood,. Black night or rosy dawn; it's you I need. There's nothing to explain, or to excuse; Beelzebub, I kiss your calloused feet! In darkened rooms where no one counts the cost, And brilliant sunbeams never penetrate, Through waking dreams the lovers wander, lost, Like spirits intertwined in Plato's cave.
Now and again, a spirit burning bright Reveals itself, a firefly in the dark, Against the backdrop of the endless night; I cook and eat my raw and bleeding heart,. A bitter and reclusive eremite, Condemned to paint with colors none can see. But when your shade dissolves in candlelight,. Pale intimation of mortality, I want to carry on in your despite -- Alas! Your ghost is too well known to me.
From sacred altars wafted to my soul A perfumed scent of frankincense and musk That overcame my reason, made me drunk With clinging pleasures, rapturous and slow,. Mysterious charms that conjured from your clasp A perfumed wine that welled from every pore! Thus lovers, from the bodies they adore, Pick every poignant flower of the past.
Your heavy hair lay pliant in my hand, A springing censer in our silent room; Luxuriating in that wild perfume,. I lost my senses in your fragrant mass Of precious clothing, redolent and pure With youthful scent of linen, soap, and fur. A masterpiece requires a gilded frame, That serves to set its portraiture apart, And separates it from the mundane world. So jewels, metals, gilding, furniture, Illuminate her beauty as she larks Within the setting that belongs to her.
She might have traded innocence for fame, Or thought that you, a trader decked in fur, Would condescend to love her; in that plain Consoling to herself a dying heart. Within her dream she gives herself a name - Satin or Velvet, wishes on a star, Exposes to our gaze her nudity, And shows her shame, a rutting chimpanzee. Disease and Death have thrown into the fire The flames of passion that once burned for us: The heart that sought its refuge in your mouth, The sweet surrender in your glowing eyes;.
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Nothing is left of every fond caress, Kisses like mint, and joys like noonday sun; Discarded portraits crumble in the hearth, As insubstantial as a rubbed-out sketch. The Poet dies a little more each day In solitude; Time injures every thing, And bruises every heart with his rough wing Foul Murderer! You never can erase The memory of her portrait from the past That haunts my dreams, like some forgotten ghost. I give you these verses so that, if my name Should land on futurity's shore, Bringing new dreams to men for your sake, like a ship That is blown from the north,.
Then your memory will glow in that future time, Like a mystery written in runes, And, suspended from these haughty rhymes, will encircle The reader with languid tunes. From the vault of the sky to the depths of the sea, Cursed one, there is no one that fits you but me! Like a ghost with ephemeral tread, floating free,. Far above all the fools who would judge you so bitterly, Passing them by with barely a glance -- Great statue of stone, dark-eyed angel of brass!
You ask me why this sadness, like a strange Dark sea that breaks upon a barren coast? When once the heart has reached a certain age, Life is a burden everybody knows. It's simple, really, not mysterious - And clear to all, just like your gaiety. Ask me no more, beauty so curious, Hush now, although your voice is dear to me.
We'll excavate my soul some other night; Live for today, and then turn out the light. The bonds of death, though faint, sink very deep,. The Devil popped into my upstairs Room, and caught me unawares; "I'd really like to know," he said, "What parts of her you like the best. My soul responded to the Fiend: "Her form in consonance complete, Delights us with such harmony That none could favor any part. Among the roses and the dark, For her enchantment is composed Of scents of wintergreen and rose,.
Sensorium of mingled hues: Her breath with sweetest sound infused, Her voice like rare perfume! What do you want, my solitary soul? My withered heart, what do you want tonight? She is so sweet, so dear and beautiful - When you're with her, you almost feel alive,. And all you have to do is flatter her, And give up everything - even your pride.
You wonder what a glorious life is worth, To be so brilliant, shining in the night. Alone in darkness and in solitude, Alone among the teeming multitudes, Her image is a burning torch for you,. For she is beautiful, and she concludes That only she is worthy of your love, Madonna, guardian Angel, jealous Muse! Lit by an Angel from his sacred fire, They go before me, eyes of living flame, And scatter on my brow their sacred fire, Those holy twins, those eyes of living flame.
From sin and death they have the power to save, And lead to Beauty with their guiding light. They are my anodyne, and I their slave, Who lead to Beauty with their guiding light. Two candles burning in the light of day, Bewitching eyes! From life, through death, into eternity: Two candles burning in the light of day, Two living eyes no mortal sun can slake! Your airs and your graces Are fresh as a landscape; You scatter your laughter Like wind in the sky;. Dull men in the sadness That swells in your wake Are astonished by grace As you leave them behind.
All the clashing bright colors You sew on your dresses Reflect like the flowers That dance in a glade;. In a garden of pleasure I laid down to rest, And received like an arrow Piercing my chest. The sun in the sky; In my cruel resentment, I beheaded an insolent Flower for spite. In the dark of the night I would trouble your rest, And would hurt the sweet breast That you offered to me;. In the dark of the night I would sneak up to you, And whip open your side With astonishing wounds,. And infect the new lips That I'd made on you, dear, With the poisonous kiss Of my virulent tears.
Bright angel, never know unhappiness -- The letter crumpled in the dead of night, The heart that breaks in broken love's despite, Dishonor, tears, frustration and regret -- Bright angel, never know unhappiness. Sweet angel, never know the sting of hate, The fists that clench at night, the raging spleen, The Siren call of knife and guillotine, Revenge, the howling master of our fate; Sweet angel, never know the sting of hate. Angel of health, a stranger to disease, Pass over pale consumptives as they crawl And gasp for breath beneath hospital walls, Begging for copper, or a place to breathe, Angel of health, a stranger to disease.
Angel of beauty, never know the fear Of growing old, when witless lovers trace A new-found line across your furrowed face; The pity in their eyes is all too clear - Angel of beauty, never know that fear. Angel of light and freedom, joy, and air, A dying saint would beg to resurrect His failing body in your youthful flesh, But I have nothing for you but this prayer, Angel of light and freedom, joy, and air.
Together just this once, my lady, On our own; The memory of that time remains Within my soul. A coin suspended in the sky, The moon shone down; The quiet river of the night Flowed through the town. Beneath the walls and alley-ways The cats crept in, Like ghosts of half-forgotten shades Upon the wind. I wanted you to dance with me, Under the moon; You stopped my venture with a glance Grown old too soon,. Your bitter voice within the shade, Descending notes; Your song in that enchanted glade Without a hope.
It's hard to be a Beauty: roses Kiss our feet, With automatic smiles for those We want to please. Rely on love?
That is a foolish thing For ones like us. The rocks that build Eternity Crumble to dust,". And memories to which I cling, Know all too well The song despairing voices sing In heart's confessional! Among the drunkards, swift avenging Dawn Arises, pale and rose, to light upon The blood-shot eyes that twist against the glare. An Angel rising in the new dawn's flare,. Whose unattainable and crimson skies Throw dazzled dreamers into the Abyss, You rouse a lost and lapsed idealist, And round upon me with a mordant kiss;.
Among the smoking ruin of our lives, A memory dawns of younger, better, days. I rub the rheum from sleepy waking eyes,. And burn within the fire of your disdain. You are the sun that chases off the night; Only your heart can make me whole again. Now evening airs are stirring every branch; The flowers exhale the perfume that they bear; Sound and perfume mix in the evening air, Languidly turning in a pensive dance. The flowers exhale the perfume that they bear; A viol quivers like a heart entranced, Languidly turning in a pensive dance; The altar of the sky is sad, and fair. A viol quivers like a heart entranced, A tender heart that will not cede despair.
The altar of the sky is sad, and fair; The bleeding sun has set upon the land A tender heart that will not cede despair Accumulates the remnants of the past. The bleeding sun has set upon the land Your memory glows within me like a prayer! Some perfumes are too strong: no glass Can hold the spirit in the flask. Inside an Oriental chest, Or in some dusty cabinet. Replete with odours of the past That opens with a creaking rasp, An iridescent bottle lies, Where perfumed memories reside. And from that dusty chrysalis A sleeping memory untwists; Mother-of-pearl, its wings unfold, Tinted with azure, crimson, gold,.
The hieroglyphics of a scene That breaks upon us from the past. In half-forgotten memories That drift in opalescent glass,. In verdigris, and poisoned clouds Where Lazarus tears off his shroud, My fainting soul has well observed Your shadow in Love's sepulchre.
But when the world's forgotten me, The broken bottle of a dream Discarded in a corner, mean, Besmirched and dusty, buried deep,. Beloved bane! The meanest hovel is by wine Changed to a castle in the air; Alcohol tints with ruby light The smoke-filled atmosphere. To opium our heart responds With timeless sensuality: A drug that fills the soul beyond Human capacity.
The water welling from your eyes Reflects my spirit, upside down! I sink into that bitter tide Where empty dreams are run aground,. And last, the poison most adored, Saliva dripping from your mouth, Given by you without remorse, I drink until I drown. Behind the mist that seems to veil your eyes - What is their color, blue, or gray, or green? Your glance recalls the days of calm and light, When captivated hearts dissolved in tears. I wish that we could live forever there; My twitching nerves keep me awake at night. Flooded by sunlight spilled from cloudy skies, You were the shining landscape of my days; The setting sun in seasons of the rain Has lit the far horizon with its fire,.
Perilous woman of seductive climes! Now is the season of your killing frost; From that approaching winter, I must draw Pleasures more sharp than iron, cold as ice. Inside my head he softly paces, Back and forth inside my house, A charming cat, handsome and brave. One scarcely hears, when he meows,. His query, tender and discreet; But when he softly purrs or growls, An irresistable appeal, Stirring, melodious, profound,.
A voice that trickles and that purls Within my spirit, there compounds To thrill me like a graceful verse. That elixir of poignant sound. Can set aside the cruellest hurts And warm the heart with melodies; It has no need of many words To say more things than libraries.
There is no other bow that plays Upon the heart-strings of my soul, And causes them to resonate So movingly throughout the whole,. As does your voice, uncanny cat, Seraphic cat, euphonious, In which, like angels, every strand Is subtle and harmonious! From his soft particolored skin Arises a perfume so sweet That when I pet him just a bit It permeates the evening.
He is the Genius of the place: Is he a fairy, or divine? He judges, rules, and animates All that is found in his empire. My eyes are drawn magnetically Towards the cat that I adore, Returning in tranquility To look inside myself once more,. My soul the mirror of his glance; There, in astonishment, I see Two living opals, yellow lamps Return my gaze unblinkingly. Sweet siren, I want to relate the delight That I found in your grace, Like a painting of artful design, where the child And the woman combine.
When your skirts billow out in the breeze, you are like A fine ship on the sea, That spreads all its canvas, and rolls to a rhythm That's lazy and slow. Like a maid who is queen for a day, you acknowledge The crowd on your way, With a confident air and a smile; in your progress, Both woman and child. Your breasts push the silk as you sway through the crowd In electric display, And the swell of your chest is a fine cabinet That ascends to a line.
Of nipples inscribed with rosettes! A container Of secrets and gems, Of perfumes and liqueurs and silk, that a corsair Could plunder at will. Like two cunning witches, your thighs churn a mixture Of pitch and desire Underneath the soft linen they chase; the force Of your youthful embrace.
Would put any hero to shame, and crush With your arms like twin snakes, As if to impress on your heart my image, Till death do us part. Let's go there, my sister; Imagine the pleasure Of living together! We'll cherish our leisure, And vanish, we two, In a country like you, Where the sunshine is hidden By gossamer mist, Like the moisture that lies In your glistening eyes. Our bedroom will hold Some furniture, old, Polished up by the years. The perfume of flowers Will bless every hour We consummate there, And the gilded rafters Will echo our laughter And softly repeat Every sigh that we speak.
All the vagabond ships Rock to sleep in their slips; They have come from the ends Of the earth to content Your every desire! The sun with its fire Descends, moving down Over paddies and towns, And astonishing temples Aglow in the round. We can't undo the things that we have done, The consequences following in course.
Like maggots feeding on a skeleton, We gnaw upon implacable remorse, But can't undo the things that we have done. We cannot drown the bitter memory In wine or nicotine, or sex, or drugs; We chew upon the rind unceasingly, The tainted fruit of things that we have done; We cannot drown the bitter memory.
Let any woman comfort, if she can, The soldier crushed by horrifying wounds, The lepers clawing suppurating sores, The men that horses trample underfoot, Let any woman comfort, if she can. Wolves follow close upon the dying one, Vultures descend upon the killing plains; A man will stumble, but he soldiers on And wonders who will bury his remains. Wolves follow close upon the dying one. Who can illuminate a darkened sky? The moon and stars are cloaked, indifferent. A prayer ascends to the refulgent night, As if a cloud could sigh, and dare to kiss.
A light that flickered as you looked behind Has suffocated in the pouring rain. Within the Devil's darkness, who can find A shelter for the lost upon their way, A light that flickered as you looked behind? Enchantress, are you fond of the condemned? Have you known things that no one can forgive, And have you felt the arrows of Regret, That pierce us like the Devil's poisoned kiss - Enchantress, are you fond of the condemned?
Remorse beyond repair, with rotten teeth Pursues our soul to the Abyss's edge. It chews on us, however far we flee, A hound that brays with putrifying breath, Remorse beyond repair, with rotten teeth! But once, upon a tattered stage, I saw A Fairy, lit by artificial skies, Personify the miracle of Dawn; The orchestra played out as if inspired, And there upon that tattered stage, I saw.
A Spirit made of gauze, and gold, and light, Fling to the earth an effigy of Hate; Her apparition haunts me in the night. The empty theatre of my heart awaits That Spirit, made of gauze, and gold, and light! Your face transparent as the autumn sky, My sadness rises in me like the sea; On salted lips, from long receeding tides, The residue of countless memories. The sweetness of your hand is all in vain; It searches out, my love, an edifice That claws of crueler women have profaned; Don't look for my heart; the beasts have eaten it.
The perfume floats above your naked breast! My heart a palace that the mob has burned, They kill each other there, and riot, drunk. With eyes of fire, shining in regret, O Beauty, iron flail of souls, you want To char the rags that savage beasts have spurned! Farewell, bright sunshine of summer's round! Soon winter's shadow will freeze our bones; Already, firewood with hollow sound Is clattering on the stones. The horrors of winter will occupy My body with all the force of hate; My heart will transmute to a block of ice, Impervious to love's embrace.
I tremble to hear those bouncing logs; They sound like a gibbet the carpenters tap, Or a far-off tower that shudders and falls To the blows of a battering ram. They sound like a coffin assembled at night, As they tip in the nails with indelicate haste; It's the ominous sound of a lonely goodbye, But for whom? It's not easy to say. I love the green glow of your distant eyes, But today, even love tastes bitter to me. Not love, nor your bed, nor the welcoming fire Can subjugate restless seas.
But show me the loving heart of a mother, Forgive the ungrateful and spiteful one, And embrace me softly, a sister and lover, Like autumn's declining sun. The grave in its hunger lies open for us, But I would rest in your lap for a while, Regretting the loss of our brilliant summer, In autumn's brief glow, before winter arrives! Madonna and mistress, for you I'll design In underground caverns a hidden shrine, Concealed by a roof of the darkest night From the world's mocking glances and crude appetites: A niche to display a fine statue of you, In costly enamels of gold and blue.
Upon your head I will place a great crown, And cut for your garment an old-fashioned gown That is made of velvet and cloth of gold Medieval, and swelling with heavy folds, Drapery that conceals your charms from the world, Embroidered with teardrops, instead of pearls! I'll worship the swelling font of your breast, Make you slippers of satin from my self-respect, Under which you might trample beneath your feet A Serpent that's swollen with longing and spleen, While in front of your altar, the candles' flame Ascends, O Virgin Queen, in your name; My eyes in devotion stare upward and burn Through clouds of Frankincense, Balsam, and Myrrh.
Then, to consummate fully your Marian role, I will mix in my love something savage and cold; I will make seven blades of the Seven Deadly Sins, With a frisson of conscience while slipping them in. Like a juggler who launches his razor-sharp knives, I will target the breast of your sanctified shrine, Introducing those evils, by fits and by starts, To your wounded and bleeding, Immaculate Heart!
Enchantress with foreign eyes Beneath that devilish brow, No angel! That's no surprise To anyone, I'll avow. I'll follow your perfumed spoor, The track of a cunning beast, O Passion that I adore! Like some idolatrous priest. The pine and the desert rose Perfume your vagabond feet; Your head tilts away, in a pose Of secrets and mysteries. Your body's enticing scent Envelops me like the charm Of an evening's perfumed breath, O Dryad, enchanting and warm. The charm of your indolence Is stronger than sorcery; The rapture of your caress Could rouse the dead from their sleep.
Stretching out, you cock your hips And make love with a steadfast will On silken sheets that slip Together as they thrill. At times, in the darkest night Holy one! You will lavish on me The kisses and solemn bites Of your deliberate frenzy,. And tear me, my love so dark, With your taunting and careless laughter, Pour into my bleeding heart Bitter tears that follow us after. Beneath your satin soles I'd caress every ribbon of silk, And would pledge myself into you, Like a Poet who bears every ill,.
Like a Genius who warms himself In the fire of your loving heat! In my dark and frozen Hell I would kiss your delectable feet. You are Diana, fully armed: Born to the chase, you beat aside Each obstacle, and cry alarms To those who'd overthrow your pride! A woman, murderous and crazed, You urge along the frenzied mob; You mount the royal balustrade And slay the scornful with a sob,. My dear Sisina! But your heart Is tender still, and womanly; The man who takes a lover's part. Will find you weeping tenderly, As if that reservoir of tears Would ransom one true cavalier.
In a country of perfume, caressed by the sun, Where palms drip forgetfulness into the eyes, I discovered an arbor of violet lies, And a lady of true Creole blood. Her pale flesh is tinged with a tropical tan, But this Circe is proud; she's the queen of the place; With a confident eye and a smile on her face She beguiles us, this huntress of Man.
Cher Madame, if you'd visit our glorious parks, Lend the grace of your presence to ancient chateaux On the banks of the Seine or the emerald Loire,. Your magnificent eyes in our gardens would grow Such prolifigate poems in poetical hearts That we'd bend more abased than the Negroes you know. Tell me, my love, where did your spirit fly, Above the dirty waters of the town, Across the ocean, underneath a sky Clear and transparent as a virgin's gown? Tell me, my love, where did your spirit fly?
https://lessmarranoca.gq/how-to-audit-learn-how-you-can-quickly.php They comfort us, the rhythms of the sea. What devil gave the sea its rolling song, That rocks our cradle like a lullaby? The tide recedes in breakers far and long, And comforts us with rhythms of the sea. Take me away, you carriages and ships! The city's dirt is falling from the cries That issue from the parting of your lips; From dissipation's shadow passing by, Take me away, you carriages and ships.
How far away the perfumed paradise, Immodest joy that kissed the skies above! A true heart floated on the swelling tide, And everything was worthy of his love. How far away, that perfumed paradise! A woman I remember, ever green, Our music, poetry, the precious time We spent together, when it truly seemed That nothing more was needed: you, and I, A woman I remember, ever green,.
Inhabiting a sinless paradise, Now farther off than India, or China; Landing upon me with its savagery, Your memory wounds me like a dirty knife, Inhabiting a sinless paradise! Like a night-crawling angel With eyes of a snake I'll revisit your room In a silent glissade,. And I'll kiss you, dark beauty, With chills like the moon, And caress you like serpents Invading your womb. When the bruised morning comes, There's a cold vacant space By your side, and within. They say to me, your burning crystal eyes, "Strange love, what merit can you find in me?
Hating every vice But innocence and sensuality,. I won't disclose to you my secret life. It is a lullaby that has no sense, A story writ in words of leaping fire - I hate all passion and intelligence! Let us be friends. Love in his tower lies, Shadowed and ambushed, bends his fatal bow. I know the weapons of his arsenal:. Crime, horror, madness! Aren't you, like me, a dappled sunlit foal, A deer in autumn, shivering and cold?