Rower
Leaning
against a great river, infinitely my sculls Wrest me with
regret away from the smiling shores; Soul with
weighty hands, filled up with the oars, The very sky
must cede unto the blades’ slow knell. Heart
hardened, eyes distract from the beauties I beat, Letting all around
me die wave on wave in circles, I would in
widemost swaths break down the famous world Made of
leaves and fire that quite low I sing. Trees over
which I pass, ample and naïve moiré, Water of skilled
work painted, and peace of endings old, Tear them,
little boat, impose on them a fold That runs to
abolish all the great calm its memory. Never, charms
of day, never have your graces Suffered so
much from a rebel essaying his defense: But, even as
suns from childhood have me taken, I remount
unto the source where ceases even a name. Vainly all
the nymph continuous and huge Prevents with
purest arms my members all harassed; I shall
slowly break a thousand ties o’er-iced And the
silver barbs of her puissance nude. This secret
noise of waters, all this river strangely Place my
gilded days beneath a band of silk; Nothing now
more blindly the antique joy wears thin Than noise of
equal flight and of naught that’s changing. ‘Neath
annulated bridges, deep water is my floorway, Vaults filled
up with wind, with murmur and with night, They run upon
a forehead that with ennui they smite, But whose
prideful bone is harder than their doorway. Their night
passes slowly. The soul beneath them lowers Its
sensitivest suns and its eyelids prompt, When, by the
movement that covers me in rocks, I sink down
in defiance of so much lazy azure. |
Paul Valéry