André Spire Poems

O BELLS, you suffer not your gods to die;
You draw us by our hearts into your churches.

But I see growing the implacable men,
Who do not feel that God must be absolved
...

THE SERVANT-GIRL'S SONG
DUSTER, dust away, my friend,
Never will your dusting end.
...

SHE climbed the mountain;
And, naked,
Vaunting her body which he had refused,
She said:
...

IT was not you I was waiting for,
Always.
It was not you that I saw,
In the dreams of my boyhood's days,
...

THEY pity me.
'Look at him, see,
Taking his walking-stick, and going out. So lonely.
He flees us. Look at his strange eyes.
...

The hair is a nudity.
- THE TALMUD.
YOU said to me: But I will be your comrade;
And visit you, but never chafe your blood;
...

NOW hand in hand, you little maidens, walk.
Pass in the shadow of the crumbling wall.
Arch your proud bellies under rosy aprons.
And let your eyes so deeply lucid tell
...

YOU, you have given me my noblest pleasures,
How many times my lips have kissed you, when
I closed you, my dear books.
...