The Azure - Poem by Stéphane Mallarmé
The serene irony of the eternal Sky
Depresses, with the indolence of flowers,
The impotent poet cursing poetry
Across a sterile waste of leaden Hours.
Fleeing, with eyes shut fast, I feel it blight
With all the intensity of crushing remorse
My empty soul. Where can I fly? What haggard night
Can stifle this scornful torment at its source?
Roll in, you fogs, and pour out ashen haze
In tattered rags of mist traversing heaven;
Smother the livid swamp of autumn days
And roof them in a grand and silent haven!
And you, dear Boredom, rise from Lethean pools,
Dredging their shoals for pallid reeds and slime;
Block with unwearying hand the great blue holes
Malicious birds keep gouging time after time.
Still unremitting! let sad chimneys smoke,
And let the smothering soot, a wandering prison,
In blackening trains of horror rise and choke
The sun now fading yellow on the horizon!
- The Sky is dead. - Toward you I run!
Bestow, O matter,
Forgetfulness of Sin and the cruel Ideal
Upon this martyr who comes to share the litter
Where the happy herd of men is made to kneel.
For there I long, because at last my brain,
Like an empty rouge-pot on a dressing stand,
Has lost the art of decking out its pain,
To yawn morosely toward a humble end…
In vain! The Azure triumphs. I hear it sing
In all the bells. The more to frighten us,
It rises in its wicked glorying
From living metal, a blue angelus.
It rolls in with the fog, and like a sword
It penetrates your inmost agony.
Revolt or flight is useless and absurd;
For I am haunted. The Sky! the Sky! the Sky! the Sky!
Comments about The Azure by Stéphane Mallarmé
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You