For Vincent van Gogh
Vincent! There is no living star so sweet
As that I saw at thy starry night;
And none bears such grand merits
As those I caught in your sights.
Vincent! There is no delicate air
As that around your auburn hair,
And another with sincere blue eyes;
With a love enough for the whole skies!
Vincent! There is no fairer paint
Than that of thee, o handsome friend;
And see, how thou hath drowned in me
A beauty more infinite than the sea.
Vincent! None is more conscious
And no crowded souls are ever alert;
Thou hath made the dark so spacious,
And sane voices more deeply heard.
Vincent! None is more innocuous
Than thy once tortured heart;
And thy prominence was virtuous
That they dared to tear apart!
Vincent! There is no faint dream today
Than that the world has coldly torn;
Now I hear what thou wanted to say
Back at that time, all alone.
Vincent! There was no colder wind
Than that thy mind had fondly seen;
And who but thou couldst love more gently
And see my fates more charmingly?
Vincent! I myself saith no poor voice
That creatures alike shan’t rejoice;
Who else but the Sun could be sour
At thy most romantic hours?
Vincent! I myself hark no shortest bliss
That such cynics feelest not at ease;
Who else but the Earth could not see
Our last wishes to be free?
Vincent! I myself had no southern time
Nor had my tales come true;
None but thou canst see our sublime
Ah, none but thou, anew!
Vincent! I myself had no eastern kiss
And those, solely wanting to fly my wings;
Away from me, and my latest wishes
Away from my grief, and its tears springing.
Ah, Vincent! Shall I paint again your gray sky;
And behold such lies slowly fade;
That my words can make thee fly;
And protect thee under their shade.
Ah, Vincent! Shall I relate to thy sad sighs,
And witness the winters rocket up high;
I cannot be with thee again, but now
I shall dream and fulfill hearts, tomorrow.
Vincent! And shall I remind myself of thee;
Of a friend that would confide in me;
Here, I want to look at you into the sky;
To be your poem and human goodbye;
Vincent! Shall I remember thou wert there;
Thou wert freedom, and thy confused stare;
Was but the virtue they could not tame,
The hidden love unworthy of your name.
Vincent! Shall I recall thy picture from nature;
Of a talent so precious and mature;
And I, for endless years would see
Such an odd, but kind creature like he.
Vincent! Shall I seek again such virtues;
That nowadays shan’t become true;
But be a discordant chord to the Night;
And the bliss above, but a fright!
Vincent! Shall I read again such blossoms;
Even more tender than that in my *****
Although they said thou wert so frail
Thou wert a comforted, and silent well!
Vincent! Shall I catch again such martyrdom;
That is sweeter than my longest poem;
To recite glumly across the moors;
But to dream of at every door!
Vincent! Shall I bewitch again such a heart;
That I voice in silence and obscurity;
That such clear memories can be apart;
That these poems are as handsome as thee.
Vincent! Shall I witness again such souls;
That I oft’ writ of in ease and warmth;
That no such colours are as beautiful;
That I found only in your charms.
Vincent! Shall I speak again of the spell;
That thou breathed into the summer rose;
That thy colours are more than my prose;
That they sounded fine, and grew well.
Vincent! Shall I own again such fineness;
That I found even in thy demerit;
That I singled out in thy oneness;
That thou painted once, so sweet!
Vincent! Shall I hold again such sorrows;
That my poems can just shyly be;
That this remembrance shall be now;
That thou hath believed in me.
Vincent! Shall I have again such love;
That fate itself can manifest enough;
That thou drew sincerely those days;
That thou art real to me today.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
For Vincent van Gogh
Vincent! There is no living star so sweet
As that I saw at thy starry night;
And none bears such grand merits
As those I caught in your sights.
Vincent! There is no delicate air
As that around your auburn hair,
And another with sincere blue eyes;
With a love enough for the whole skies!
Vincent! There is no fairer paint
Than that of thee, o handsome friend;
And see, how thou hath drowned in me
A beauty more infinite than the sea.
Vincent! None is more conscious
And no crowded souls are ever alert;
Thou hath made the dark so spacious,
And sane voices more deeply heard.
Vincent! None is more innocuous
Than thy once tortured heart;
And thy prominence was virtuous
That they dared to tear apart!
Vincent! There is no faint dream today
Than that the world has coldly torn;
Now I hear what thou wanted to say
Back at that time, all alone.
Vincent! There was no colder wind
Than that thy mind had fondly seen;
And who but thou couldst love more gently
And see my fates more charmingly?
Vincent! I myself saith no poor voice
That creatures alike shan’t rejoice;
Who else but the Sun could be sour
At thy most romantic hours?
Vincent! I myself hark no shortest bliss
That such cynics feelest not at ease;
Who else but the Earth could not see
Our last wishes to be free?
Vincent! I myself had no southern time
Nor had my tales come true;
None but thou canst see our sublime
Ah, none but thou, anew!
Vincent! I myself had no eastern kiss
And those, solely wanting to fly my wings;
Away from me, and my latest wishes
Away from my grief, and its tears springing.
Ah, Vincent! Shall I paint again your gray sky;
And behold such lies slowly fade;
That my words can make thee fly;
And protect thee under their shade.
Ah, Vincent! Shall I relate to thy sad sighs,
And witness the winters rocket up high;
I cannot be with thee again, but now
I shall dream and fulfill hearts, tomorrow.
Vincent! And shall I remind myself of thee;
Of a friend that would confide in me;
Here, I want to look at you into the sky;
To be your poem and human goodbye;
Vincent! Shall I remember thou wert there;
Thou wert freedom, and thy confused stare;
Was but the virtue they could not tame,
The hidden love unworthy of your name.
Vincent! Shall I recall thy picture from nature;
Of a talent so precious and mature;
And I, for endless years would see
Such an odd, but kind creature like he.
Vincent! Shall I seek again such virtues;
That nowadays shan’t become true;
But be a discordant chord to the Night;
And the bliss above, but a fright!
Vincent! Shall I read again such blossoms;
Even more tender than that in my *****
Although they said thou wert so frail
Thou wert a comforted, and silent well!
Vincent! Shall I catch again such martyrdom;
That is sweeter than my longest poem;
To recite glumly across the moors;
But to dream of at every door!
Vincent! Shall I bewitch again such a heart;
That I voice in silence and obscurity;
That such clear memories can be apart;
That these poems are as handsome as thee.
Vincent! Shall I witness again such souls;
That I oft’ writ of in ease and warmth;
That no such colours are as beautiful;
That I found only in your charms.
Vincent! Shall I speak again of the spell;
That thou breathed into the summer rose;
That thy colours are more than my prose;
That they sounded fine, and grew well.
Vincent! Shall I own again such fineness;
That I found even in thy demerit;
That I singled out in thy oneness;
That thou painted once, so sweet!
Vincent! Shall I hold again such sorrows;
That my poems can just shyly be;
That this remembrance shall be now;
That thou hath believed in me.
Vincent! Shall I have again such love;
That fate itself can manifest enough;
That thou drew sincerely those days;
That thou art real to me today.