At the Artist's, Op. 27

1.
'I seat myself; poet's seat is a kingly chair,
Of ebony wrought, and of gems both vibrant and fair,
The seat which upholds ancient skill and lore,
The throne which Homer, Virgil oft did frequent
And spoke, as now do I, of what imagination does invent;
Of cities well behidden in deepening mist,
And of those that dwell in fog-clad ways.
I now sing; a brief song of unseen days,
That though are not, could, and yet will be.
So listen, I shall paint my exquisite visions for thee,
The worlds that fore ye only few did see.
So be proud, ye wise, for I wrote for thee.'

2.
'Look, there's a city so sanguine and dark,
That flickering it emerges from earth's hazy palm,
Appearing at times white, or else like a black arm,
And when Eve here whips her black o'er-cloak,
The city meets it with many an artificial light,
And revels its wild triumph o'er banished night.
While few then dare the streets, the silence flees,
Fore sparkling laughter, that emerges fair and clean,
And together with a mystic tune fills the scene,
Contesting the prize against a roar of lighting's car,
That hurries the boulevards in maddening pursuit
Of Bacchus' train, which wills to its midnight route.'

3.
'There, 'cross the promanade-steet, we see,
A masquerade, or a ball-room dance in progress,
The relishment and fete of today's noblesse,
The show of money; of power; and of beauty immortal,
An ethereal progression with wine well soaked,
And with golden influence and iron-grip evoked.
Such is the masque of many a blithe and weary soul;
Such a masque's a play; players it well control;
Its played below the shine of myriad suns,
The candle-light of hundred-thousand stars,
Making their reflection-play in gilded mirrors,
Which once did cost a thousand races' sorrows.'

4.
'And lo, there, just below that estate,
Where transfigured nobles make their jubilee,
Some poorer folk sup in a Viennese café,
And make merry in pleasant intercourse.
See, there's a group of well-behaved suits,
Whose manners well betray their reputes;
And there, some merchant's daughter in stately pose,
Plays with piano what her ancestor once did compose,
And sets her eye to one young Adonis,
Who, though circled by trivial and fair company,
Leans to the counter and glares into distance,
Oblivious of his friends and of her benevolent glance.'

5.
'Well many a story fills those wondrous states,
Yet enough I've said of their blazing lights,
Of what is eternal, of man's simplest delights;
Rather, let us now focus on certain creeping form,
One sleazy wretch that lingers and crawls ahead,
Treads the street, leaning wall to wall, and wills to his bed,
A black-clad youth returning from a distant orgy.
Where did he come from? Not from the cafe, the bar,
Neither the masque, for his are the fiery eyes that gaze afar,
The supple tread, and certain faustian air,
That comes to those who to demonic voice lean their ear;
He crawls ahead; while affectionately glances back.'

6.
'Here's a house that in certain side-street stands,
One which every Classic city has had their clone,
That to rid helps neither despising eye nor moan;
The kind of house that fans the brilliant flames,
To purify; for revolution; for beauty too, of another kind.
Here the friends of deviant pleasures each other find,
Here every artist meets his brother, or he that knows one;
Here some sell wine, others flesh, or someone's spirit.
Many a poem here in success premiered or failed,
Many careless adepts here have their fate bewailed;
And as many found enlightment as were lost to the fire.
Such the mansion is our stage, its occupants the cast.'

7.
'Firstly, there as an antechamber as tall as its fine,
And its carpets are coloured crimson for much spilled wine;
Then, there's a great hanger of cloaks and jackets,
Most which are black, though some are of motley cloth -
I advice not to touch, or else incur clowns' and fools' wrath;
A great hall comes next, filled with divans and stools,
Arranged in a circle, so that each one can see all,
And well read the passion that oft fills the hall;
In front of it a great dais stands, station of poet or bard,
Or a screen for variety of dark and desolate display;
Then, for those who wish to escape the fray,
There's an alcove or two well hid, which curtains do insulate.'

8.
'Yet now past are the orgies, no wily fox,
Haunts the halls anymore, all've retreated to distant den,
Hid the street-lamp sun, or fled to more unknown glen.
The wolves gone too, and with them all the wine-odoured ways,
Till only one lasts, the Artist dozes in his distant room,
Sketching some hazy poem or song, in early morning-gloom.
The drunks been thrown out, they doze outside,
Never were they admitted upstairs in the first place;
No, for that's the citadel of our youngling race,
There the den of its prophetial voice, and its home,
And though one's inheritance could well be spent down here,
No money, and no heritage can buy admittance up there.'

9.
'Look around; none wil stop you; naught's closed;
The walls, where science and art are interposed,
Are filled and emblazoned with sketches and posters;
Every vacant chair's so covered with books and tomes,
It seems the inhabitants like to have libraries as homes;
Here's a pipette stack and dozen computers,
And a cupboard with wine and spirit so stacked to the brim,
That half would fill Burgundy to its rim;
On right corner yonder, there's a case of musical devices,
Ancient and younger prodigies both are here admired;
And on the left, a bed where once Death himself respired,
To exchange ideas, I heard, he was here invited.'

10.
'The Artist lies in the middle, head in hand.
Clear and light, his eyes gaze to some distant land,
His hair's a long curl, his attire's white and plain,
In front of him's a sketchy work, or a devious and dark plan,
A construct still unknown to every living and dead man.
Hurry not, neither concern yourself with little details,
For such fingers as those, like puppeteer's limbs,
Can make other men work, and hone the details of his whims.
And the eyes as well, which charmed have not few a lady,
Equally show both satin grace and alloyed force.
Yet look, who'd know the depth of emotion, when those eyes,
Sweetly lingering, to the object of his passion he lays.'

11.
'On a voluptuous throne a dignified queen reclines,
A feline form; yet no common cat, but a divine creature,
To whom assigned were every splendour and feature;
Hers the silken garb, of lilac and purple dye;
Hers the jeweled empire, it's etched to her eye;
Hers the balanced shape, perfectly lean and buxom;
There's a tiger at first glance, Succubus at second,
Third's a dragon; and if one claims they exist not,
Fourth glance to her figure proves their existence yet.
While that's no nature's work is certain,
But what some bening god has wrought and gave to man;
She's the phantasmagoria of the house, and all its dreams.'

12.
'Her ears are pointed and long with velvet tresses,
Her fur's the condeced flair of royal dresses;
And has anyone ever be seen such diamond claws,
These she extends from her long-fingered cat-paws;
Above the almond-eyes, there're brows like shaded lines,
Below them an immaculate sense shines;
And then, there are long and fluffy whiskers,
The manes of lynx, pride of tigers, and pomp of a cat.
There's beauty and power, might exquisite and regal,
No inspector could deny it, and few escapes her thrall;
Hers the form both grave sin and boon,
As he recons there's naught to surpass her in nature grown.'

13.
'As when each other they give the affectionate look,
It seems eyes betray mind and there's not two but one,
Gone's all friction, and all between them's none.
The pallid lady moon would bless them too,
And blows a chilling gale through the window,
Favours the pair, whose feelings my words shun to bestow.
Such a strange sight! As slowly sleep claims his mind,
He rests his head on scarlet matress; she too falls asleep,
Closes her iridescent eyes, and willfully dreams;
For tonight is theirs the paradise existence.
Yet, guarding their hallowed sleep, a third presence
In stark sentinence stands, throwing his shadow o'er the room.'

14.
'See there, where the steep roof curves and bends,
Where amongst the shadows and woodpanes he blends,
There's a dark and distant form, sized twice a man,
And if my words did please ye before,
Forgive me, for in shaded morn only his eyes can I explore.
While hers are the wondrous and intricate things,
Shirk not your gaze; for his are fixed and deep,
And in them shift the nightmares that come from sleep;
And look closer still; the perfect diamond-shapes are filled,
With clouds that swim to-and-fro o'er stilled pools;
With them he captures you; and lo! o'er one petty life he rules.
The eyes smirk; whether that be smile or else, I shan't tell.'

15.
Yet now part we must with the Cat, Artist and the Third One;
Look, there creeps ahead the sneaking sun.
We must go; I too must part ways and leave and fade,
Poets live not forever, he's but a dream or shade;
And anyway, the throne's cold and hard, its no divan.
Fore we leave, glance around; I know whether to her or him,
I am blind; yet though I know ye not, I know them well,
Both her form and his and mine, and where they dwell.
So fore we leave, allow me one last point.
Gaze 'round, there's a city so sanguine and dark,
That when it emerges from earth's flickering scape,
It must be night; daylight still destroys every dreamlike shape.'