To Luthien a Norwegian Nymph.
Oh elusive and mysterious nymph
from hyperboreal artic rings
with the sad and apologetic smile that
MonaLisa-like, of Sartre’s the existential wit
complainingly craving that divine essence
that elusively turns -out
miserable human existence to be
whether one of a religious or non-religious
frame of mind structured-with is,
thy smile shows frozen through your
thinly-parted, cheekely-promising, turgid lips
the pearly white of your tiny predatory teeth.
I dream of the desire of thee
when sleep deserts of longings-full
my lonely, tormented bachelor-nights
that vigilantly and expectantly,
always in vain, wait for you.
" Halas!"
I tell myself at times as these
which an eternity to me appear to be,
" What would I do if instead of here
where nights are just
the sevenhundredthirtieth of a year's fraction
were I to be there where
my Luthien abides
a night there lasting half a year?
What would I do
if during the protracted hyperboreal artic nights
had I to pine disconsolately and sigh
for her elusive and evanescent
presence and sight?
I surely would then wish
during such an eternal night
that, thus deprived of her sight
from the lack of her
I should surely die".
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