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á r pád tó t h | 119 á r pá d t ó t h (18 8 6 – 19 2 8) Evening Song Behold the moon, perched on the gable’s height, Like some bizarre old tomcat, that might curl Its golden body in a glittering ball, Ancient and sensual sky-beast, guard of night—, It’s tired, poor thing, it’s yearning for its ease: You feel it? now it stares, determined, blind, Would leap the window, crawl to you, and find And rub itself around your sweet mild knees. And look about this half-in-shadow room— Feel how the sad old furniture tonight Trembles toward you, stumbling would take flight And cluster round you in a soft dark swarm: Lonely old slaves, numb bodies crumbling, They’d all beg refuge with you, motherless, Ask your dear fingers for a soft caress, To feel your gentle body’s murmuring. And see how in the darkness burn my eyes! I lay them on your breast, jewels old and true, Millions of years old—it comes back to you?— They burned and hurt—were yet no earths nor skies— They need your palm, your fingers’ cool caress: O gesture that dissolves away my being From all else in the world that claims a being, And rocks me in eternal blessedness. 1915 ...

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