Aubrey Vincent Beardsley
Aubrey Vincent Beardsley Poems
Along the path that skirts the wood,
The three musicians wend their way,
Pleased with their thoughts, each other’s mood,
...
The 'Valiant' was a noble bark
As ever ploughed the sea,
A noble crew she also had
As ever there might be.
...
Of all kinds of conveyances, I think the omnibus
For many little reasons should be voted best by us;
...
Through sorrowís mist Godís glory shines most bright,
Then may we feel His presence doubly nigh.
Save for the dark no stars would stud the sky.
...
The lights are shining dimly round about,
The Path is dark, I cannot see ahead;
And so I go as one perplexed with doubt,
...
Here is the tale of Carrousel,
The barber of Meridian Street.
He cut, and coiffed, and shaved so well,
That all the world was at his feet.
...
The Café Strelitz was almost empty.
Upon a hot midday in July, Don Juan wandered into the
...
The courts of love are fair to see
Built of shining masonry
Quaintly carved in olden day
By the fairies’ hands they say.
...
Carelessly coiffed, with sash half slipping down
Cravat mis-tied, and tassels left to stream,
I walked haphazard through the early town,
...
Aubrey Vincent Beardsley Biography
Aubrey Vincent Beardsley (21 August 1872 – 16 March 1898) was an English illustrator and author. His drawings, executed in black ink and influenced by the style of Japanese woodcuts, emphasized the grotesque, the decadent, and the erotic. He was a leading figure in the Aesthetic movement which also included Oscar Wilde and James A. McNeill Whistler. Beardsley's contribution to the development of the Art Nouveau style and the poster movement was significant, despite the brevity of his career before his early death from tuberculosis.)
The Best Poem Of Aubrey Vincent Beardsley
The Three Musicians
Along the path that skirts the wood,
The three musicians wend their way,
Pleased with their thoughts, each other’s mood,
Franz Himmel’s latest roundelay,
The morning’s work, a new-found theme,
their breakfast and the summer day.
One’s a soprano, lightly frocked
In cool, white muslin that just shows
Her brown silk stockings gaily clocked,
Plump arms and elbows tipped with rose,
And frills of petticoats and things, and outlines
as the warm wind blows.
Beside her a slim, gracious boy
Hastens to mend her tresses’ fall,
And dies her favour to enjoy,
And dies for réclame and recall
At Paris and St. Petersburg, Vienna and St. James’s Hall.
The third’s a Polish Pianist
With big engagements everywhere,
A light heart and an iron wrist,
And shocks and shoals of yellow hair,
And fingers that can trill on sixths and fill beginners with despair.
The three musicians stroll along
And pluck the ears of ripened corn,
Break into odds and ends of song,
And mock the woods with Siegfried’s horn,
And fill the air with Gluck, and fill the tweeded tourist’s soul with scorn.
The Polish genius lags behind,
And, with some poppies in his hand,
Picks out the strings and wood and wind
Of an imaginary band,
Enchanted that for once his men obey
his beat and understand.
The charming cantatrice reclines
And rests a moment where she sees
Her chateau’s roof that hotly shines
Amid the dusky summer trees,
And fans herself, half shuts her eyes, and smoothes
the frock about her knees.
The gracious boy is at her feet,
And weighs his courage with his chance;
His fears soon melt in noon-day heat.
The tourist gives a furious glance,
Red as his guide-book grows, moves on,
and offers up a prayer for France.
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4/19/2024 4:01:09 PM # 1.0.0.1119
