Black bile strikes back

[Max Ernst, Wednesday (de Une Semaine de Bonté), en este enlace]

 

Back when, to me, all things shone newly,
All the impressions of this life.
The looks of girls, the wind in oak trees,
The nightingale that sings at night.
When all the loftiest of feelings
Of freedom, glory and of love,
The arts inspired, set me reeling,
And powerfully stirred my blood.
Those days of hopes and pleasures easy,
And shocks revealed by sudden grief,
Were when a certain evil genius
In secret came to visit me.
And melancholy were our meetings,
Because his smile, his look so bold
And charming, his sarcastic speeches
Poured chilling poison in my soul.
With slander that was ever-biting,
He taunted, tempted Providence.
He called the beautiful a pipe-dream,
For inspiration had contempt.
And he did not believe in freedom.
He doubted love, held life in scorn.
He could not see the slightest reason
To bless a thing the world had born.

 

[Alexander Pushkin, The Demon]