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Text - Compilations - The Library - Volume 09 - R to Z - 354 fiction ebooks (PDF, HTML, RTF, DOC, TXT, ZIP).zip
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Smith, Clark Ashton - Vignettes.txt
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Vignettes
by Clark Ashton Smith
Beyond the Mountains
Surely, beyond the mountains there is peace-beyond the mountains that lie so
blue and still at the world's extreme. Such ancient calm, such infinite quietude
is upon them, that surely, no toiling cities, no sea whose foam a ship has ever
cloven, can lie beyond, but valleys of azure silence, where amaranthine fiowers
sleep and dream, untroubled of any wind, by the hyalescense of tranquilly
flowing streams unbroken as the surface of a mirror.
The Broken Lute
Because you are silent to my lyric prayers, deaf to the melodies I have made
from the sighs and murmurs of a wounded love, I have broken my golden lute, and
cast it away, tarnished and unstrung, among the red leaves and faded roses of
the September garden. Silence, the silver dust of lilies, the muted mournful
wind of autumn, and the fitfully drifting leaves, have claimed it for their own.
Seeing it there, as you pass on your queenly way amid the crumbling roses, will
you not echo in your heart one sigh of the many sighs, which, as a music for
your pleasure, were breathed from its chords, during the summer's half-forgotten
days?
Nostalgia of the Unknown
The nostalgia of things unknown, of lands forgotten or unfound, is upfound, at
times. Often I long for the gleam of yellow suns upon terraces of translucent
azure marble, mocking the wildless waters of lakes uafathomably calm; for lost,
legendary palaces of serpentine, silver and ebony, whose columns are green
stalactites: for the pillars of fallen temples, standing in the vast purpureal
sunset of a land of lost and marvellous romance. I sigh for the dark-green
depths of cedar forests, through whose fantastically woven boughs, one sees at
intervals an unknown tropic ocean, like gleams of blue diamond; for isles of
palm and coral, that fret an amber morning, somewhere beyond Cathay or
Taprobane; for the strange and hidden cities of the desert, with burning brazen
domes and slender pinnacles of gold and copper, that pierce a heaven of heated
lazuli.
Grey Sorrow
Oftimes, in the golden, November days, I meet among the dead roses of the garden
the ghost of an old sorrow-a sorrow grey and dim as the mist of autumn-as a
wandering mist that was once a rain of tears. There, through the long decline of
afternoon, I walk among the roses with the ghost of my sorrow, whose
half-forgotten, half-invisible form becomes dimmer and more indistinct, till I
know its face no longer from the twilight, nor its voice from the vesper wind.
The Hair of Circe
I am afraid of thy hair: Lustrous, heavily curled, it suggests the coils of a
golden snake; and half the fascination of thy painted lips, of thy still and
purple-lidded eyes, is due to the fear that it may awake beneath my caresses.
The Eyes of Circe
Thine eyes are green and still as the lakes of the desert. They awake in me the
thirst for strange and bitter mysteries, the desire of secrets that are deadly
and sterile.