Paul Verlaine Poetry

Nevermore
(Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia II)

Memory, memory, what do you want of me? Autumn makes the thrush fly through colourless air, and the sun casts a monotonous glare on the yellowing woods where the north winds hum. We were alone, and walking in dream, she and I, hair and thoughts wind-blown. Suddenly, turning her troubling gaze on me, ‘Your loveliest day?’ her voice of living gold, her voice, with its fresh angelic tone, vibrant and sweet. I gave her my answer, a smile so discreet, and kissed her white hand with devotion. - Ah! The first flowers, what a fragrance they have! And how charming the murmured emotion of that first ‘yes’ from lips that we love!

Wish
(Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia IV)

Ah! Fond speech! And the first mistresses! The hair’s gold, the eyes’ blue, the flower of the flesh, and, then, in the scent of the dear body’s mesh the shy spontaneity of caresses! How far away is all of that lightness and all that innocence! Ah, backwards yet to the Spring of regret, the black winters have fled, my disgusts, my boredoms, and my distress. So I’m alone now, here, sad and alone, sad and desperate, chilled like the old, poor as an orphan with no elder sister. O for a woman in love, tender and mild, sweet, pensive, dark, and always astonished, who now and then kisses your brow like a child.

Lassitude
(Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia V)

‘For the wars of love a field of feathers’ Gongora With sweetness, with sweetness, with sweetness! Calm this feverish rapture a little, my charmer. Even at its height, you see, sometimes a lover needs the quiet forgetfulness of a sister. Be languid: make your caresses sleep-bringers, like your cradling gaze and your sighs. Ah, the jealous embrace, the obsessive spasm, aren’t worth a deep kiss, even one that lies! But you say to me child, in your dear heart of gold wild desire goes sounding her cry. Let her trumpet away, she’s too bold! Put your brow on my brow, your hand on my hand, make me those promises you’ll break by and by, let’s weep till the dawn, my little firebrand!

My Familiar Dream
(Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia VI)

I often have this dream, strange and penetrating of a woman, unknown, whom I love, who loves me, and who’s never, each time, the same exactly, nor exactly different, she knows me, she’s loving. Oh she knows me, and my heart, growing clear for her alone, is no longer a problem, for her alone, she alone understands, then, how to cool the sweat of my brow with her weeping. Is she dark, blonde, or auburn? – I’ve no idea. Her name? I remember it’s vibrant and dear, as those of the loved that life has exiled. Her eyes are the same as a statue’s eyes, and in her voice, distant, serious, mild, the tone of dear voices, of those who have died.

Woman And Cat
(Poèmes Saturniens: Caprices I)

She was playing with her cat: it was lovely to see the white hand and white paw fight, in shadows of eve. She hid – little wicked one – in black silk mittens claws of murderous agate, fierce and bright as kittens’. The other too was full of sweetness, sheathing her sharp talons’ caress, though the devil lacked nothing there. And in the bedroom, where sonorous ethereal laughter tinkled in air, shone four points of phosphorus.

Related Posts by Categories

Widget by Simran