LITMIR.BIZ

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shame restrains them.

      Poet.

      But what has shame to do with poetry?

       It has no worth, it is a social value,

       Value of a marquise, par excellence.

      Marquise.

      None the less, shame is a resigned and subtle justice,

       The justice of women, poet.

      Poet.

      Which is no justice at all.

      Marquise.

      Poet, the stones you throw

       In your defeat, will fall upon your head.

      Poet.

      That is my destiny. Your rising sun

       Can never know the splendor of my sun that sets.

      Marquise.

      The fault is nowise mine....

      Poet.

      True.... I am insane

       And a madman is insane, marquise, although he reason.

      Marquise.

      Oh, reason, poet. I would convince you

       That even a marquise may be sincere.

      Poet.

      And I, my lady, I would fain believe it.

      Marquise.

      Believe it then, I beg of you.

      Poet.

      But there is this:

       A marquise might also lose her head.

      Marquise.

      True she might lose her head ... but for a rhyme?

      Poet.

      Which, no matter how true, will always be a lie.

      [Pause.]

      Marquise.

      But why did you protest against my skepticism?

      Poet.

      I riddled your words, but protested for myself.

      Marquise.

      So vain a reason, and so selfish?

      Poet.

      A prideful reason.... I stand aghast before the abyss.

      Marquise.

      I see that all your love has been in verse.

      Poet.

      No, marquise, but life

       Cradles crude truths which the poet disdains.

      Marquise.

      And amiable truths which passion passes by.

      Poet.

      But about which the dreamer's world revolves.

      Marquise.

      I do not dream, I wish....

      Poet.

      I know well what I wish....

      Marquise.

      Well then, we wish that it should not be merely a consonant.

      Poet.

      No, rather that it should be poetry.

      Marquise.

      Suppose that it were so, would it content you?

      Poet.

      It is enough for me, and yet I fear

       That this pale poetry, untried, unlived,

       Can have no driving urge.

      Marquise.

      Why then should we refuse to live it?

      Poet.

      I shall tell you. It is not in high-born taste

       To trifle with a heart.

       The love of a marquise is the problematic

       Love of elegance and froth,

       And like other love a sort of mathematic

       Love of addition, subtraction and division.

       It is not rude passion, fierce, emphatic,

       Song and orchestral counterpoint of life.

       It is what the world would name platonic,

       Love without fire, without virility,

       With nothing of creation, nothing tonic,

       One-step love, love of society.

       And I will have none of this love sardonic,

       None of its desperate futility.

      Marquise.

      I do not fear you though you are a poet,

       And I say things to you, no other ears would endure.

       You were not born, poor anchorite,

       To say to a woman: "Be mine."

       And such is your secret vanity,

       You are a servile vassal of your own Utopia.

       You pretend to transform women

       Into laurel branches meaningless,

       And with your cynic's blare

       You thread upon the needle of your pride

       Dregs from the utter depths of the abyss.

      Poet.

      Marquise, a poet's love has led you astray.

      Marquise.

      Oh, don't be vain and fanciful. I swear

       That in my placid life, happiness brings no joy.

       What I longed for was a love, profound and mature,

       The profound love of a poet come to being,

       And not the incongruities of adolescence in verse....

       The radiant synthesis of a pungent existence

       And not the disloyalties of a dispersed dream.

       What woman has not dreamed of loving a poet

       Who would be conqueror and conquered all in one?

       What woman has not wished to be humble and forgiving

       With the man who sings the great passions he has known?

       We need you poets.... We are tormented by the desire

       Of a harmonious life, filled with deep sound,

       With the vigor and strength of wine poured out

       Into bowls of truths, deep with the depth of death.

       We crave no water, lymphatic, pure,

       In glasses of wind, frail as life.

       Better the vintage of the rich

       Served in vile glasses of gold. And if the mind be coarse,

       Perchance the hands will glitter with many stones.

       And if I may not have a fragrant and well-ordered nest

       Filled with clear rhythm and little blond heads,

       Then let me have my palace where luxurious pleasure

       Lends to love of earth, grief and deep dismay.

       Why do you not love living, poets? Why is it,

       The dullard who nor loves nor lives poaches your kisses?

      Poet.

      I do not comprehend, marquise. Why love living,

       If that is to live loving? We

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