You are my everlasting, ma dame de cœur, my lady of heart reine de douceur queen of sweetness tu combles mes fantasmes, you fill my fantasies scelles mes pensées, sealed my thoughts, dans mon esprit, nous valsons.
In my mind, we waltz, lente et longue,mais langoureuse valse, slow and long, languorous waltz but, sensuelle étreinte, sensual embrace. Fougueuse passion, fiery passionil est irréel, it is unreal, mon amour pour toi ne s'en ira jamais, my love for you will never go away.
Reflets incarnadins sur nappe de rubis reflections on incarnadine sheet ruby va-et-vient flamboyants au chant des clapotis back and forth to the sound of splashing flaming friselis infinis dans les eaux frétillantes ripple in the waters infinite wriggling clins d'œil étincelants au ciel du repentir winks at the sparkling sky.
Excusez-moi, my pretty Mademoiselle,
you are a French girl it's easy to tell,
me, I don't smoke not even a French cigarette,
but I love my pomme de terre,
and always croquette,
I am from Angleterre and you are from France,
and you will honor me by having a dance.
I'm getting ready for a new sensation,
never kissed them in another nation,
internationally I'm in clover,
I was a native on the boat ride over,
I'm getting ready for my new vocation,
I am the man who will unite the nations,
this is love, the language of love.
We've been together now for more than a day,
and I am waiting to hear what you say,
come on, come on, I think you're telling me lies,
You are Italian, I can tell by your eyes,
I love Chianti and I hope you'll agree,
that Zefferelli makes the movies for me.
I try my French, Latin, Spanish and Greek,
this is the language of love that I speak,
I never know if they're from Paris or Rome,
we stop the talking when I'm walking them home,
one little kiss and then heavens above,
this is the universal language of love.
Are you ready for a new sensation,
I'm going to kiss a girl from every nation,
this is love - the language of love.
What! would you have a man bind himself to the first girl he falls in love with, say farewell to the world for her sake, and have no eyes for anyone else? A fine thing, to be sure, to pride oneself upon the false honour of being faithful, to lose oneself in one passion for ever, and to be blind from our youth up to all the other beautiful women who can captivate our gaze! No, no; constancy is the share of fools.
Every beautiful woman has a right to charm us, and the privilege of having been the first to be loved should not deprive the others of the just pretensions which the whole sex has over our hearts. As for me, beauty delights me wherever I meet with it, and I am easily overcome by the gentle desire with which it hurries us along.
It matters not if I am spoken for: the love I have for a fair one cannot make me unjust towards the others; my eyes are always open to merit, and I pay the homage and tribute nature claims. Whatever may have taken place before, I cannot refuse my love to any of the lovely women I behold; and, as soon as a beautiful face asks it of me, if I had ten thousand hearts I would give them all away. The first beginnings of love have, besides, indescribable charms, and the true pleasure of love consists in its variety.
It is a most captivating delight to reduce by a hundred means the heart of a young beauty; to see day by day the gradual progress one makes; to combat with transport, tears, and sighs, the shrinking modesty of a heart unwilling to yield;
and to force, inch by inch, all the little obstacles she opposes to our passion; to overcome the scruples upon which she prides herself, and to lead her, step by step, where we would bring her. But, once we have succeeded, there is nothing more to wish for; all the attraction of love is over, and we should fall asleep in the tameness of such a passion, unless some new object came to awake our desires and present to us the attractive perspective of a new conquest. In short, nothing can surpass the pleasure of triumphing over the resistance of a beautiful maiden; and I have in this the ambition of conquerors, who go from victory to victory, and cannot bring themselves to put limits to their longings. There is nothing that can restrain my impetuous yearnings. I have a heart big enough to be in love with the whole world; and, like Alexander, I could wish for other spheres to which I could extend my conquests.
My art resides in the music of my poetry. It is this inebriating quality, combined with the finely wrought melancholy, the sadness of love and unattained happiness, the delicate and sentimental touch, that set me apart as a magician of the word. My writings evoke the somber mood of a man who looks for consolation and hope as I mourn in the gloom of autumn the departure of a lover.
Lonesome wanderer in the woods I lament the extinction of hope yet keep hoping. Perhaps when life denies me its blessings, there may still be a soul out there that will find his, a drop of honey in the bittersweet cup of life he was drinking. But my doubts set in. The fallen flower rendered its fragrance as its parting message, and I, will too depart. But lover of beauty that I am, this romantic soul cannot fade without embellishing the world with the sad and melodious sound of my last breath. The star-crossed poet, whose tormented life I have to live on the brink of
perdition, lets autumn fill my soul with leaden sadness. The languorous sobs of the violin rend my heart. I wonder about the past, and face the future with the vulnerability of an autumn leaf at the mercy of the brisk wind. With just a few words in each verse in three six-line stanzas, I create a haunting lament that clings tenaciously to the psyche. Let the musique verlainienne then begin. To submerge and transport us to an autumn of melancholic heartbreak.
I try to paint pictures drawn from my world,
A song is my canvas, brush strokes are words,
But do I portray love that is just my ideal,
Like sculptures of stone that can never be real.
For I am a man with romance, in my soul,
Do I cry for the moon as I reach for my goal.
Looking for a perfect love.
Born of such innocence, how little we save,
Our spirits are tempered from cradle to grave,
If one drop of virtue can somehow survive,
from oceans of doubt all our dreams can arise.
For I am a man with a child in his soul,
I
live on my hopes as I follow that road.
Looking for the perfect love.
A thirst for perfection is in every heart,
Like the painter who won't be content with his art,
For those who drink deeply, all dreams heavy wine,
Look for heaven on earth, see a world more divine.
Looking for a perfect love.
And the stars were shining . . .
The earth smelt sweet . . .
The garden gate creaked . . .
And a footstep brushed the sand.
She entered, fragrant,
And fell into my arms.
Oh soft kisses, tender caresses,
While I, all a-quiver,
Unveiled her lovely features!
Vanished forever is my dream of love . . .
That time has fled
And I die in despair.
Never have I loved life so dearly!
My mouth is wet with your life,
my eyes blinded with your face,
a heart itself which feels
the intimate music.
My mind is caught,
dimmed with it,
(where is love taking us?)
my lips are wet with your life.
In my body were pearls cast,
shot with Ionian tints, purple,
vivid through the white.
Faint thunder drifts . . .
beneath the willow,
rain upon the pool.
The sound of rain,
and rain again from lotus leaves.
The western eaves of this small place
cut through the rainbow.
I leaned on the rail and waited
for the moon to bloom.
A swallow flew and perched
to peer in at the ridgepole.
The moon, jade hook,
hung from the curtain rod.
No waves on water,
still waves, the wrinkles of the coverlet.
Behind the crystal screen, two pillows:
on one, a hairpin fell.
The perfume of your body dulls my sense.
I want not wine nor weed; your breath alone
Suffices. In this moment rare and tense
I worship at your breast. The flower is blown
The saffron petals tempt my amorous mouth,
The yellow heart is radiant now with dew
Soft-scented, redolent of my loved South;
O flower of love! I give myself to you.
Uncovered on your couch of figured green,
Here let us linger indivisible.
The portals of your sanctuary unseen
Receive my offering, yielding unto me.
Oh, with our love the night is warm and deep!
The air is sweet, my flower, and sweet the flute
Whose music lulls our burning brain to sleep,
While we lie loving, passionate and mute.
Lo, I have opened unto you the
gates of my being,
And like a tide, you have flowed
into me.
The innermost recesses of my spirit
are full of you
And all the channels of my soul
are grown sweet with your presence
For you have brought me peace;
the peace of great tranquil waters,
And the quiet of the summer sea.
Your hands are filled with peace as
The noon-tide is filled with light;
about your head is bound the eternal
Quiet of the stars, and in your heart
dwells the calm miracle of twilight.
I am utterly content.
In all my being is no ripple of unrest
for I have opened unto you the
Wide gates of my being
and like a tide, you have flowed into me.
Oh your hands—they are strangely fair!
Fair—for the jewels that sparkle there,—
Fair—for the witchery of the spell
That ivory keys alone can tell;
But when their delicate touches rest
Here in my own do I love them best,
As I clasp with eager, acquisitive spans
My glorious treasure of beautiful hands!
Marvelous—wonderful—beautiful hands!
They can coax roses to bloom in the strands
Of your brown tresses; and ribbons will twine,
Under mysterious touches of thine,
Into such knots as entangle the soul
And fetter the heart under such a control
As only the strength of my love understands—
My passionate love for your beautiful hands.
As I remember the first fair touch
Of those beautiful hands that I love so much,
I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled,
Kissing the glove that I found unfilled—
When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow,
As you said to me, laughingly, “Keep it
now!”. . .
And dazed and alone in a dream I stand,
Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand.
When first I loved, in the long ago,
And held your hand as I told you so—
Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss
And said “I could die for a hand like this!”
Little I dreamed love’s fullness yet
Had to ripen when eyes were wet
And prayers were vain in their wild demands
For one warm touch of your beautiful hands.
I love you for what you are, but I love you
yet more for what you are going to be.
I love you not so much for your realities
as for your ideals.
I pray for your desires that they may be great,
rather than for your satisfactions,
which may be so hazardously little.
You are going forward toward something great.
I am on the way with you,
and therefore I love you.
I love your lips when they’re wet with wine
And red with a wild desire;
I love your eyes when the lovelight lies
Lit with a passionate fire.
I love your arms when the warm white flesh
Touches mine in a fond embrace;
I love your hair when the strands enmesh
Your kisses against my face.
Not for me the cold calm kiss
Of a virgin’s bloodless love;
Not for me the saint’s white bliss,
Nor the heart of a spotless dove.
But give me the love that so freely gives
And laughs at the whole world’s blame,
With your body so young and warm in my arms,
It sets my poor heart aflame.
So kiss me sweet with your warm wet mouth,
Still fragrant with ruby wine,
And say with a fervor born of the South
That your body and soul are mine.
Clasp me close in your warm young arms,
While the pale stars shine above,
And we’ll live our whole young lives away
In the joys of a living love.
If I could write words
Like leaves on an autumn forest floor,
What a bonfire my letters would make.
If I could speak words of water,
You would drown when I said
“I love you.”
The moment I heard my first love story
I began seeking you,
not realizing
the search was useless.
Lovers don’t meet
somewhere along the way.
They’re in one another’s souls
from the beginning.
In that book which is
my memory . . .
On the first page
That is the chapter when
I first met you
appear the words . . .
‘Here begins a new life.’
she comes to me; she lingers,
Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new surprise
High rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger;
Yet am I the light and living of her eyes.
Something friends have told her fills her heart
to brimming,
Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames.—
Sure of her haven, Oh like a dove alighting,
Arms up, she dropped: our souls were in our names.
Quietly as rosebuds
Talk to thin air,
Love came so lightly
I knew not she was there.
Quietly as lovers
Creep at the middle noon,
Softly as players tremble
In the tears of a tune;
Quietly as lilies
Their faint vows declare,
Came the shy pilgrim:
I knew not she was there.
Quietly as tears fall
On a warm sin,
Softly as griefs call
In a violin;
Without hail or tempest,
Blue sword or flame,
Love came so lightly
I knew not that she came.
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