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We have all been faithful to Cynara in our fashion:
To our woman, our work, art, science, play—to each passion.
Yet we have failed her, and she us, because we made her an end—
An insupportable burden to each—instead of our friend.
We have put the poor girl up on a pedestal, serving
Her as God with service ever faithful—ever swerving.
She never meant her wine in place of that which the Master serves,
Nor her kisses more than music plucked from diapsonal nerves.
All this soul searching that goes on, all these textures of bitter-sweet—
Dump them in a dustbin and go search your city for Love Street.
Inquire of the dust—it hides the Beloved’s feet from all eyes
That have not been opened by the rites of wine to love’s mysteries.
When our true Beloved becomes the only object of our passion,
Even beautiful Cynara desires to serve us in her fashion.
The lush romanticism of Ernest Dowson’s poem from the decadent 1890’s is some contrast to Francis’ poetic world.
Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae
Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was grey:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind,
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
A lament for a lost love it celebrates erotic attachment. Love here belongs entirely to personal passion bound in a world of opposites. From Francis’ vantage point it is an idolatry, a perversion of the real quest of love and service. Cynara herself would find this cult of making her a thrill plucked from diapasonal (the correct spelling) nerves (meaning the full range of sense impressions).
True love is of course an encounter with sacred mystery, not the worship of the opposite sex as an ultimate good.
When we ourselves become dust beauty itself will serve us.