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306
SOLO
"Do you mind if I see what you've written?"
The young man shrank. "Not at all," he finally replied, shoving the sheets to the edge of his table.
Paul's curiosity had been aroused by a blend of intensity and fastidiousness that reminded him of himself in days gone by. As he read, this impression was confirmed, for the poem evoked one of his most familiar moods:
"Golden wine before me, gold-green trees,
An orchestra of voices,
Siphons,
Chaos merging into yellow warmth,
Satiety.
An orchestra of voices,
Siphons,
Chaos merging into yellow warmth,
Satiety.
A yearning to lament,
Exquisite,
Gains me.
Yet what may I lament save surfeit?
Surfeit not of sense,
But of a self unshared,
Unsharable.
Exquisite,
Gains me.
Yet what may I lament save surfeit?
Surfeit not of sense,
But of a self unshared,
Unsharable.
That leaf among its mates!
Ephemeral?
Less so than I, who, brushing every land,
Am at the bidding of capricious winds
Which it knows to resist
Until due Autumn claims it.
Ephemeral?
Less so than I, who, brushing every land,
Am at the bidding of capricious winds
Which it knows to resist
Until due Autumn claims it.
I, human leaf,
Have learned
That leaves once fallen
Never regain their branch;
And, till a new wind stirs
Rest here,
Peering through golden bubbles,
Summer trees,
Into a radiant vault
Have learned
That leaves once fallen
Never regain their branch;
And, till a new wind stirs
Rest here,
Peering through golden bubbles,
Summer trees,
Into a radiant vault
