Vincent

For Vincent van Gogh

Vincent! There is no living star so sweet

As that I saw at thy starry night;

And none bears such grand merits

As those I caught in your sights.

 

Vincent! There is no delicate air

As that around your auburn hair,

And another with sincere blue eyes;

With a love enough for the whole skies!

 

Vincent! There is no fairer paint

Than that of thee, o handsome friend;

And see, how thou hath drowned in me

A beauty more infinite than the sea.

 

Vincent! None is more conscious

And no crowded souls are ever alert;

Thou hath made the dark so spacious,

And sane voices more deeply heard.

 

Vincent! None is more innocuous

Than thy once tortured heart;

And thy prominence was virtuous

That they dared to tear apart!

 

Vincent! There is no faint dream today

Than that the world has coldly torn;

Now I hear what thou wanted to say

Back at that time, all alone.

 

Vincent! There was no colder wind

Than that thy mind had fondly seen;

And who but thou couldst love more gently

And see my fates more charmingly?

 

Vincent! I myself saith no poor voice

That creatures alike shan’t rejoice;

Who else but the Sun could be sour

At thy most romantic hours?

 

Vincent! I myself hark no shortest bliss

That such cynics feelest not at ease;

Who else but the Earth could not see

Our last wishes to be free?

 

Vincent! I myself had no southern time

Nor had my tales come true;

None but thou canst see our sublime

Ah, none but thou, anew!

 

Vincent! I myself had no eastern kiss

And those, solely wanting to fly my wings;

Away from me, and my latest wishes

Away from my grief, and its tears springing.

 

Ah, Vincent! Shall I paint again your gray sky;

And behold such lies slowly fade;

That my words can make thee fly;

And protect thee under their shade.

 

Ah, Vincent! Shall I relate to thy sad sighs,

And witness the winters rocket up high;

I cannot be with thee again, but now

I shall dream and fulfill hearts, tomorrow.

 

Vincent! And shall I remind myself of thee;

Of a friend that would confide in me;

Here, I want to look at you into the sky;

To be your poem and human goodbye;

 

Vincent! Shall I remember thou wert there;

Thou wert freedom, and thy confused stare;

Was but the virtue they could not tame,

The hidden love unworthy of your name.

 

Vincent! Shall I recall thy picture from nature;

Of a talent so precious and mature;

And I, for endless years would see

Such an odd, but kind creature like he.

 

Vincent! Shall I seek again such virtues;

That nowadays shan’t become true;

But be a discordant chord to the Night;

And the bliss above, but a fright!

 

Vincent! Shall I read again such blossoms;

Even more tender than that in my bosom,

Although they said thou wert so frail

Thou wert a comforted, and silent well!

 

Vincent! Shall I catch again such martyrdom;

That is sweeter than my longest poem;

To recite glumly across the moors;

But to dream of at every door!

 

Vincent! Shall I bewitch again such a heart;

That I voice in silence and obscurity;

That such clear memories can be apart;

That these poems are as handsome as thee.

 

Vincent! Shall I witness again such souls;

That I oft’ writ of in ease and warmth;

That no such colours are as beautiful;

That I found only in your charms.

 

Vincent! Shall I speak again of the spell;

That thou breathed into the summer rose;

That thy colours are more than my prose;

That they sounded fine, and grew well.

 

Vincent! Shall I own again such fineness;

That I found even in thy demerit;

That I singled out in thy oneness;

That thou painted once, so sweet!

 

Vincent! Shall I hold again such sorrows;

That my poems can just shyly be;

That this remembrance shall be now;

That thou hath believed in me.

 

Vincent! Shall I have again such love;

That fate itself can manifest enough;

That thou drew sincerely those days;

That thou art real to me today.