Parisian Dream
By William Aggele
To Constantin Guys
I
This morning I am still entranced
By the image, distant and dim,
Of that awe-inspiring landscape
Such as no mortal ever saw.
Sleep is full of miracles!
Obeying a curious whim,
I had banned from that spectacle
Irregular vegetation,
And, painter proud of his genius,
I savored in my picture
The delightful monotony
Of water, marble, and metal.
Babel of arcades and stairways,
It was a palace infinite,
Full of basins and of cascades
Falling on dull or burnished gold,
And heavy waterfalls,
Like curtains of crystal,
Were hanging, bright and resplendent,
From ramparts of metal.
Not with trees but with colonnades
The sleeping ponds were encircled;
In these mirrors huge naiads
Admired themselves like women.
Streams of blue water flowed along
Between rose and green embankments,
Stretching away millions of leagues
Toward the end of the universe;
There were indescribable stones
And magic waves; there were
Enormous glaciers bedazzled
By everything they reflected!
Insouciant and taciturn,
Ganges, in the firmament,
Poured out the treasure of their urns
Into chasms made of diamonds.
Architect of my fairyland,
Whenever it pleased me I made
A vanquished ocean flow
Into a tunnel of jewels;
And all, even the color black,
Seemed polished, bright, iridescent,
Liquid enchased its own glory
In the crystallized rays of light.
Moreover, no star, no glimmer
Of sun, even at the sky’s rim,
Illuminated these marvels
That burned with a personal fire!
And over these shifting wonders
Hovered (terrible novelty!
All for the eye, naught for the ear!)
The silence of eternity.
II
Opening my eyes full of flames
I saw my miserable room
And felt the cursed blade of care
Sink deep into my heart again;
The clock with its death-like accent
Was brutally striking noon;
The sky was pouring down its gloom
Upon the dismal, torpid world.