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Poems-Part11_Alan Seeger(1888-1916)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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And lovers wander two by two, oblivious among the press,

And making one of them no less, all lovers shall be dear to you:



All laughing lips you move among, all happy hearts that, knowing what

Makes life worth while, have wasted not the sweet reprieve of being young.



"Comment ca va!" "Mon vieux!" "Mon cher!"

Friends greet and banter as they pass.



'Tis sweet to see among the mass comrades and lovers everywhere,

A law that's sane, a Love that's free, and men of every birth and blood



Allied in one great brotherhood of Art and Joy and Poverty. . . .

The open cafe-windows frame loungers at their liqueurs and beer,



And walking past them one can hear fragments of Tosca and Boheme.

And in the brilliant-lighted door of cinemas the barker calls,



And lurid posters paint the walls with scenes of Love and crime and war.

But follow past the flaming lights, borne onward with the stream of feet,



Where Bullier's further up the street is marvellous on Thursday nights.

Here all Bohemia flocks apace; you could not often find elsewhere



So many happy heads and fair assembled in one time and place.

Under the glare and noise and heat the galaxy of dancing whirls,



Smokers, with covered heads, and girls dressed in the costume of the street.

From tables packed around the wall the crowds that drink and frolic there



Spin serpentines into the air far out over the reeking hall,

That, settling where the coils unroll, tangle with pink and green and blue



The crowds that rag to "Hitchy-koo" and boston to the "Barcarole". . . .

Here Mimi ventures, at fifteen, to make her debut in romance,



And join her sisters in the dance and see the life that they have seen.

Her hair, a tight hat just allows to brush beneath the narrow brim,



Docked, in the model's present whim, `frise' and banged above the brows.

Uncorseted, her clinging dress with every step and turn betrays,



In pretty and provoking ways her adolescent loveliness,

As guiding Gaby or Lucile she dances, emulating them



In each disturbing stratagem and each lascivious appeal.

Each turn a challenge, every pose an invitation to compete,



Along the maze of whirling feet the grave-eyed little wanton goes,

And, flaunting all the hue that lies in childish cheeks and nubile waist,



She passes, charmingly unchaste, illumining ignoble eyes. . . .

But now the blood from every heart leaps madder through abounding veins



As first the fascinatingstrains of "El Irresistible" start.

Caught in the spell of pulsing sound, impatient elbows lift and yield



The scented softnesses they shield to arms that catch and close them round,

Surrender, swift to be possessed, the silken supple forms beneath



To all the bliss the measures breathe and all the madness they suggest.

Crowds congregate and make a ring. Four deep they stand and strain to see



The tango in its ecstasy of glowing lives that clasp and cling.

Lithe limbs relaxed, exalted eyes fastened on vacancy, they seem



To float upon the perfumed stream of some voluptuous Paradise,

Or, rapt in some Arabian Night, to rock there, cradled and subdued,



In a luxurious lassitude of rhythm and sensual delight.

And only when the measures cease and terminate the flowing dance



They waken from their magic trance and join the cries that clamor "Bis!" . . .

Midnight adjourns the festival. The couples climb the crowded stair,



And out into the warm night air go singing fragments of the ball.

Close-folded in desire they pass, or stop to drink and talk awhile



In the cafes along the mile from Bullier's back to Montparnasse:

The "Closerie" or "La Rotonde", where smoking, under lamplit trees,



Sit Art's enamored devotees, chatting across their `brune' and `blonde'. . . .

Make one of them and come to know sweet Paris -- not as many do,



Seeing but the folly of the few, the froth, the tinsel, and the show --

But taking some white proffered hand that from Earth's barren every day



Can lead you by the shortest way into Love's florid fairyland.

And that divine enchanted life that lurks under Life's common guise --



That city of romance that lies within the City's toil and strife --

Shall, knocking, open to your hands, for Love is all its golden key,



And one's name murmured tenderly the only magic it demands.

And when all else is gray and void in the vast gulf of memory,



Green islands of delight shall be all blessed moments so enjoyed:

When vaulted with the city skies, on its cathedral floors you stood,






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