Page:Le Tombeau de Théophile Gautier, 1873.djvu/180

Within the graven lintels of the gate
That here divides our vision and our fate,
     The dreams we walk in and the truths of sleep,
All sense and spirit have life inseparate.

There what one thinks, is his to grasp and keep;
There are no dreams, but very joys to reap,
     No foiled desires that die before delight,
No fears to see across our joys and weep.

There hast thou all thy will of thought and sight,
All hope for harvest, and ail heaven for flight;
     The sunrise of whose golden-mouthed glad head
To paler songless ghosts vas heat and light.

Here where the sunset of our year is red
Men think of thee as of the summer dead,
     Gone forth before the snows, before thy day,
With unshod feet, with brows unchapleted.

Couldst thou not wait till age had wound, they say,
Round those wreathed brows his soft white blossoms? Nay,
     Why shouldst thou vex thy soul with this harsh air,
Thy bright-winged soul, once free to take its way?

Nor for men’s reverence hadst thou need to wear
The holy flower of grey time-hallowed hair;
     Nor were it fit that aught of thee grew old,
Fair lover ail thy days of all things fair.