First Nocturn
I will free my soul from this stifling place,
I will plunge where the waters are cold and roar!
I will dash myself into the midst of their race:
Below in the forest I know the place—
The woods hide the dam over which they pour,
But I hear them ever in the lonely night—
And there where the whiten'd wave
Strains back towards the peace forsaken—repentant in vain!—I will plunge and lave
My naked body, my throbbing soul
That the waters may heal and save.
Or hush! do you hear? it sounds like the sea!
Yes, the sea must be near! it would make me whole
I will steal me out of the hothouse at night
When she sees me not, when she heeds not me
When her cruel play hath other prey
I will creep down still to the mother's call from the stifling house—you will not betray?
Creep down and leap
Headlong into their bosom, the waters! drink long and deep
Cool me, lave me without and within,
Cool the hotness of mortal sin
Yield up the mortal breath—
O the deep
O the sea-wind's breadth and the blue,
The speaking blue of the mystic night!
They shall freshen my soul from its fever of sleep
From its dream of death
And the flesh shall be born anew!
Then beat me ye waves! O beat me to death,
Whirl me, buried in your seething spray!
I will none of your languid ironic caresses
Such as she yields here in the night of her tresses—
That fritter the soul away—
Up here in the hothouse: she laughs in the night
When the fever'd desire
May find no delight
In the pleasure withheld till the joy is fled
And the heart grown fierce, till the soul is dead
And passion paler with hate:
But cruel, O sea, will I have you and fierce and strong in your chastening ire
To drown this passion, to quench this fire
That is eating my soul away.
(Is it not too late?)
Then cleans'd might I walk in my mists again
That my soul loves, haunted by loves without stain
Pallid as the mists and cold as they
That I dream of ever in the lonely night—
O their silver silence, the mists! lo, there
They dream over river-bank and lake!
Thro' the hothouse glass I see them wake
To the lamp of the rising moon:—my prayer
Dost thou hear it, Lord? do I cry in vain?
Is there no way out of the choking air?
I will plunge where the waters are cold and roar!
I will dash myself into the midst of their race:
Below in the forest I know the place—
The woods hide the dam over which they pour,
But I hear them ever in the lonely night—
And there where the whiten'd wave
Strains back towards the peace forsaken—repentant in vain!—I will plunge and lave
My naked body, my throbbing soul
That the waters may heal and save.
Or hush! do you hear? it sounds like the sea!
Yes, the sea must be near! it would make me whole
I will steal me out of the hothouse at night
When she sees me not, when she heeds not me
When her cruel play hath other prey
I will creep down still to the mother's call from the stifling house—you will not betray?
Creep down and leap
Headlong into their bosom, the waters! drink long and deep
Cool me, lave me without and within,
Cool the hotness of mortal sin
Yield up the mortal breath—
O the deep
O the sea-wind's breadth and the blue,
The speaking blue of the mystic night!
They shall freshen my soul from its fever of sleep
From its dream of death
And the flesh shall be born anew!
Then beat me ye waves! O beat me to death,
Whirl me, buried in your seething spray!
I will none of your languid ironic caresses
Such as she yields here in the night of her tresses—
That fritter the soul away—
Up here in the hothouse: she laughs in the night
When the fever'd desire
May find no delight
In the pleasure withheld till the joy is fled
And the heart grown fierce, till the soul is dead
And passion paler with hate:
But cruel, O sea, will I have you and fierce and strong in your chastening ire
To drown this passion, to quench this fire
That is eating my soul away.
(Is it not too late?)
Then cleans'd might I walk in my mists again
That my soul loves, haunted by loves without stain
Pallid as the mists and cold as they
That I dream of ever in the lonely night—
O their silver silence, the mists! lo, there
They dream over river-bank and lake!
Thro' the hothouse glass I see them wake
To the lamp of the rising moon:—my prayer
Dost thou hear it, Lord? do I cry in vain?
Is there no way out of the choking air?
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