"FUNERAL TOAST
O you, fatal emblem of our fortune!
Salute of madness and dark libation,
Certainly not to the magical hope of passage
I raise the cup in which suffers a golden monster!
Your apparition is no longer enough for me:
For I myself have placed you in porphyry.
The rite is for hands to extinguish the torch
Against the iron gates of the silent tomb:
And it is ill-known, elected for this quiet
Feast of ours to celebrate the poet's absence,
That this beautiful sepulcher encloses him entirely.
Except that the ardent glory of the craft,
Until the common and vile hour of ash,
Through the lit glass of an evening proud to descend,
Returns toward the fires of the pure mortal sun!
Magnificent, total and solitary, such
Exhaling wavers the false human pride.
This ferocious crowd! It announces: we are
The sad opacity of future specters.
But the blazon of mourning scattered on vain walls
I have despised the shining horror of a tear,
When, deaf to my sacred distich, nor alarmed,
Someone passing by, proud, blind and mute,
Wrapped in his vague shroud, transforms himself
Into the intangible hero of posthumous waiting.
Vast abyss carried in the mists spread
By the whirlwind of words he has not yet spoken,
Nothingness to this Man abolished of then:
"Memories of horizons, what is it, O you, the Earth?"
Cries that dream; and, voice whose light fades,
Space has for toy the cry: "I don't know!"
The Master, with his grave eye, pacified
On his steps from Eden the restless wonder
Whose final shiver, with voice alone, awakens
The mystery of a name for the Lily and the Rose.
Does anything remain of this fate?
A dark belief, O all of you, encumbers you.
The luminous eternal genius has no shadow.
I want, thoughtful of you, I want to see
To him who faded, yesterday, into duty
Ideal which are the parks of this star
Remaining for the honor of the tranquil disaster
A solemn, vast agitation in the sky
Of words, drunken purple, goblet on its stem,
That diaphanous gaze, diamond, dawn water,
Remaining there on the flowers of which none dies,
Raises alone between the hour and the ray of day!
Of our true parks is already all the stay,
Where the pure poet, with broad and mild gesture
To dream, of his task enemy, interdicts it;
So that in the morning of his proud repose
May rise, ornament to the white cemetery path,
When ancient death is as for Gautier
Not to open the sacred eyes and be silent in itself,
The solid sepulcher that swallows all harms,
And the miserly silence and the heavy night."
Created by d'Araprì