The Dead

Within this place, I breathe a dead man's soul; And the dead man, a blond and beardless youth! A youthful light and blond stirs in our home; And moments fly, and days and years and ages. The dead man's soul is in this lonely house Like bitter quiet about a calm-bound ship That longs for the sea-paths, and dreams of storms.

All faces, smoked with the faint smoke that glides From candles lighting death! All eyes, still fixed On a sad coffin! And the mute lips, tinged With the last kiss's bitterness, still tremble. As for a prayer, hands are raised, and feet Move quietly as behind a funeral. The snow-white nakedness of the cold walls And black luxuriance of the mourning robes Are like discordant music of two tunes.

The children's step is light in thoughtful care Lest they disturb the slumber of the dead. The old men, bent as at a pit's dark end, Lean on the virgins' shoulders, virgins fair Like fates benevolent and comforting. The young men seek on endless paths to find In Wisdom's hands the weed Oblivion. And on the window shutters that are closed, The clay pots with their flowers seem to be A dead man's wreath; and the lone ray that glides Through the small fissure is transformed within Into a taper's light on All Souls' Day.

The candle burning at the sacred image Is flickering and snaps as if it wrestled With death. At moments, led astray, comes here A butterfly of varied wings and brings In airy flesh the Ave of the soul That did enchant the house, the house that seems Glad for its dead yet loves and longs for him, The dead blond youth, and claims him as its own! And luring him, that it might hold for ever Its chosen love relentlessly, it has Now changed its form and turned from house to grave!