Paris-based poet Renee Vivien known as the 'Muse of the Violets,' was
born at the end of the 19th century. Vivien lived an extraordinary tempestuous life; a hedonistic creature of the night. Notorious for her wild parties in her lavish and eclectically decorated apartment, she lived hard, and burned bright.
True to herself, adventurous and a free spirit, she sought to
make life more beautiful, more magical.
The light, in throes of agony, dies at your knee,
Come, o you whose guarded face, so lovely to see,
Carries dejection from years heavy and jaded:
Come, with your deadly welts turning pale, in distress,
With no other scent in the long folds of your dress
Than the breath of flowers which have long since faded.
Come, with your unrouged lips that ignite my desires,
Without rings, - neither rubies, opals, nor sapphires
Dishonoring your fingers, milky as the moon, -
And from your eyes put mirrored reflections to flight...
For it is here: the simple, chaste hour of the night
When hues can oppress, and luxury importune.
Yield up all your chagrin to eternal delight,
Exhale in a profound cry your suffering blight,
All those events of the past, so cruel and senseless,
Leave them to death, to the distance and to silence...
In the dream which to strife gives such sweet condolence;
To the ancient fever of speech: forgetfulness.
I will kiss your hands and your divine naked feet;
Our hearts will cry out for the neglect that they meet,
Will decry the vile words and base gestures anew...
These flights will linger in peaceful security....
You will join your hands in their mystic purity,
And, in the soul-filled shadows, I will adore you.