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Moda Dediler

Musée des Beaux Arts

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

W.H. Auden

Midsummer Night's Dream - Act III Scene I

Snout: O Bottom, thou art changed! what do I see on thee?

Bottom: What do you see? you see an ass-head of your own, do you?

Quince: Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! thou art translated.

Bottom: I see their knavery: this is to make an ass of me; to fright me, if they could. But I will not stir from this place, do what they can: I will walk up and down here, and I will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid.

The ousel cock so black of hue,

    With orange-tawny bill,

The throstle with his note so true,

    The wren with little quill;

Titania [Awaking]: What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?

Bottom [Sings]:

The finch, the sparrow, and the lark,

    The plain-song cuckoo gray,

Whose note full many a man doth mark,

    And dares not answer nay: -

for indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a bird? who would give a bird the lie, though he cry "cuckoo" never so?

Titania: I pray thee gentle mortal,sing again:
Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note;
So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;
And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me
On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee.

Sharing Eve's Apple - John Keats

I

O blush not so! O blush not so!

    Or I shall think you knowing;

And if you smile the blushing while,

    Then maidenheads are going.

II

There's a blush for won't, and a blush for shan't,

    And a blush for having done it:

There's a blush for thought and a blush for naught,

    And a blush for just begun it.

III

O sigh not so! O sigh not so!

    For it sounds of Eve's sweet pippin;

By these loosen'd lips you have tasted the pips

    And fought in an amorous nipping.

IV

Will you play once more at nice-cut-core,

    For it only will last our youth out,

And we have the prime of the kissing time,

    We have not one sweet tooth out.

V

There's a sigh for yes, and a sigh for no,

    And a sigh for I can't bear it!

O what can be done, shall we stay or run?

    O cut the sweet apple and share it!

 

L'Azur - Stéphane Mallarmé

De l’éternel Azur la sereine ironie
Accable, belle indolemment comme les fleurs,
Le poëte impuissant qui maudit son génie
A travers un désert stérile de Douleurs.

Fuyant, les yeux fermés, je le sens qui regarde
Avec l’intensité d’un remords atterrant,
Mon âme vide. Où fuir? Et quelle nuit hagarde
Jeter, lambeaux, jeter sur ce mépris navrant?

Brouillards, montez! Versez vos cendres monotones
Avec de longs haillons de brume dans les cieux
Que noiera le marais livide des automnes
Et bâtissez un grand plafond silencieux!

Et toi, sors des étangs léthéens et ramasse
En t’en venant la vase et les pâles roseaux,
Cher Ennui, pour boucher d’une main jamais lasse
Les grands trous bleus que font méchamment les oiseaux.

Encor! que sans répit les tristes cheminées
Fument, et que de suie une errante prison
Éteigne dans l’horreur de ses noires traînées
Le soleil se mourant jaunâtre à l’horizon!

––Le Ciel est mort.––Vers toi, j’accours! donne, ô matière,
L’oubli de l’Idéal cruel et du Péché
A ce martyr qui vient partager la litière
Où le bétail heureux des hommes est couché,

Car j’y veux, puisqu’enfin ma cervelle, vidée
Comme le pot de fard gisant au pied d’un mur,
N’a plus l’art d’attifer la sanglotante idée,
Lugubrement bâiller vers un trépas obscur.

En vain! l’Azur triomphe et je l’entends qui chante
Dans les cloches. Mon âme, il se fait voix pour plus
Nous faire peur avec sa victoire méchante,
Et du métal vivant sort en bleus angélus!

Il roule par la brume, ancien et traverse
Ta native agonie ainsi qu’un glaive sûr;
Où fuir dans la révolte inutile et perverse?
Je suis hanté. L’Azur! l’Azur! l’Azur! l’Azur!