I'm very hapy to learn that!
Speaking of obscure and decadent forgotten poets, another one who deserves at least as much attention as Barnitz is Count Stenbock.
His complete works in poetry was very rare and extremely expensive, but a new edition of all his poems are to be republished soon thanks to the effort of David Tibet (see coptic cat website for info).
Wikipedia entry
strange flowers
sleepanddreams
“Music and Sleep are one, and Love and Death
Are even as their brethren - let us die -
Or let me sleep where thou canst play to me,
Let thy violin-like voice flow over me,
Like oil poured forth upon the savage waves
That beat upon the prow of a dark ship
Which bears a load of shadows of despair.â€
— Count Stanislaus Eric Stenbock
THE PASSION OF SLEEP
How sweet it is to fall -
Waters of grey, green, blue!
Walled with a yielding wall
Your liquid crystal through -
Here no foot may pursue,
Tho’ voices afar may call -
- Voices afar are few -
Sleep is the best of all.
World of wormwood and gall,
Whose myrtle is only rue,
Give me the cypress tall,
And moon-thrown shadows of yew.
Let weeping winters strew
Snow on my bed for a pall -
- This thing alone is true -
Sleep is the best of all.
Sweet - how I dream of you!
Do you dream of me at all? -
If you did, would you say too?
Sleep is the best of all.
MAY BLOSSOM
It seemed, some halo of the moon,
Which lambent, carmine shadows threw;
The disc was wholly silver soon
Encircled with a ring of blue.
And in that silvern heart of space,
Slowly an image did arise,
Thy strange dark hair, thy strange pale face,
And thine unfathomable eyes."
POEM
Darling, would you be sorry
If you knew that I were dead?
Who loved you above all things,
Though never word I said.
Did you know dear, that I loved you?
One day your look was kind,
And one day - oh, so sad, love!
Were I dead, dear, would you mind?
CRADLE SONG
Sleep on, my poor child, sleep;
Why must thou wake again?
Thou art but born into a world of woe,
Of agony, unending, deep,
Of long-protracted pain.
Wert though not born with tears and travail?
Thy first cry was a wail;
Life is a mystery strange and sad,
A wondrous riddle to unravel,
But who shall lift the veil?
‘Sleep on, my poor child, sleep,
Sleep on,’ the mother said.
‘I will sit here and weep.’
She looked on her child asleep,
And saw that the child was dead:
â€Tis well,’ the mother said.
â€