Conrad Aiken Quotes
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Whitman had a profound influence on me. … He was useful to me in the perfection of form, as a sort of compromise between the strict and the free.
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My veins are afire with music,Her eyes have kissed me, my body is turned to light;I shall dream to her secret heart tonight...
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Death is a meeting place of sea and sea.
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Walk with me world, upon my right hand walk, speak to me Babel, that I may strive to assemble of all these syllables a single word before the purpose of speech is gone.
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I walk in a cloud of wonder; I am glad.I mingle among the crowds; my heart is pounding;You do not guess the adventure I have had! . . .Yet you, too, all have had your dark adventures,Your sudden adventures, or strange, or sweet . . .My peril goes out from me, is blown among you.We loiter, dreaming together, along the street.
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His thoughts were blown and scattered like leaves;He thought of the pail . . . Why, then, was it forgotten?Because he would not need it?
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The wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
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The poet walked alone in a cold late rain,And thought his grief was like the crying of sea-birds;For his lover was dead, he never would love again.
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In the mazes of loitering people, the watchful and furtive,The shadows of tree-trunks and shadows of leaves,In the drowse of the sunlight, among the low voices,I suddenly face you
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'I am the one who stood beside you and smiled,Thinking your face so strangely young . . . 'I am the one who loved you but did not dare.'
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And, growing tired, we turn aside at last,Remember our secret selves, seek out our towers,Lay weary hands on the banisters, and climb;Climbing, each, to his little four-square dreamOf love or lust or beauty or death or crime.
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A chorus of elfin voices blowing about meWeaves to a babel of sound. Each cries a secret.I run among them, reach out vain hands, and drown.
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Two lovers move in the crowd like a link of music,We press upon them, we hold them, and let them pass;A chord of music strikes us and straight we tremble;We tremble like wind-blown grass.
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Two lovers, here at the corner, by the steeple,Two lovers blow together like music blowing:And the crowd dissolves about them like a sea.Recurring waves of sound break vaguely about them,They drift from wall to wall, from tree to tree.
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From high black walls, gleaming vaguely with rain,Each yellow light looked down like a golden eye.They trembled from coign to coign, and tower to tower,Along high terraces quicker than dream they flew.And some of them steadily glowed, and some soon vanished,And some strange shadows threw.
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We were all born of flesh, in a flare of pain,We do not remember the red roots whence we rose,But we know that we rose and walked, that after a whileWe shall lie down again.
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And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness,Vaguely and incoherently, some dreamOf a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills . . .A black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam;Someone cries in the forest, and someone kills.
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What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.
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'When you are dead your spirit will find my spirit,And then we shall die no more.'
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It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morningWhen the light drips through the shutters like the dew,I arise, I face the sunrise,And do the things my fathers learned to do.Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftopsPale in a saffron mist and seem to die,And I myself on a swiftly tilting planetStand before a glass and tie my tie.
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Through soundless labyrinths of dream you pass,Through many doors to the one door of all.Soon as it's opened we shall hear a music:Or see a skeleton fall . . .
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He would not yield, he thought, and walk more slowly,As if he knew for certain he walked to death:But with his usual pace,-deliberate, firm,Looking about him calmly, watching the world,Taking his ease . . .
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O sweet clean earth, from whom the green blade cometh!When we are dead, my best belovèd and I,Close well above us, that we may rest forever,Sending up grass and blossoms to the sky.
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Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,We have built a city of towers.