Paul Verlaine Poetry

Spring

Tender, the young auburn woman,
By such innocence aroused,
Said to the blonde young girl
These words, in a soft low voice:
'Sap which mounts, and flowers which thrust,
Let my fingers wander in the moss
Where glows the rosebud
'Let me among the clean grasses
Drink the drops of dew
Which sprinkle the tender flower, --
'So that pleasure, my dear,
Should brighten your open brow
Like dawn the reluctant blue.'
Her dear rare body, harmonious,
Fragrant, white as white
Rose, whiteness of pure milk, and rosy
As a lily beneath purple skies?
Beauteous thighs, upright breasts,
The back, the loins and belly, feast
For the eyes and prying hands
And for the lips and all the sense
'Little one, let us see if your bed
Has still beneath the red curtain
The beautiful pillow that slips so
And the wild sheets. O to your bed!'
--translated by Roland Grant and Paul Archer

The Young Fools

High-heels were struggling with a full-length dress
So that, between the wind and the terrain,
At times a shining stocking would be seen,
And gone too soon. We liked that foolishness.
Also, at times a jealous insect's dart
Bothered out beauties.
Suddenly a white
Nape flashed beneath the branches, and this sight
Was a delicate feast for a young fool's heart.
Evening fell, equivocal, dissembling,
The women who hung dreaming on our arms
Spoke in low voices, words that had such charms
That ever since our stunned soul has been trembling.

'Tis The Feast Of Corn

?Tis the feast of corn, 'tis the feast of bread,
On the dear scene returned to, witnessed again!
So white is the light o?er the reapers shed
Their shadows fall pink on the level grain.
The stalked gold drops to the whistling flight
Of the scythes, whose lightning dives deep, leaps clear;
The plain, labor-strewn to the confines of sight,
Changes face at each instant, gay and severe.
All pants, all is effort and toil ?neath the sun,
The stolid old sun, tranquil ripener of wheat,
Who works o?er our haste imperturbably on
To swell the green grape yon, turning it sweet.
Work on, faithful sun, for the bread and the wine,
Feed man with the milk of the earth, and bestow
The frank glass wherein unconcern laughs divine,?
Ye harvesters, vintagers, work on, aglow!
For from the flour?s fairest, and from the vine?s best,
Fruit of man?s strength spread to earth?s uttermost,
God gathers and reaps, to His purposes blest,
The Flesh and the Blood for the chalice and host!
--Translated by Gertrude Hall

Bruxelles

Hills and fences hurry by
Blent in greenish-rosy flight,
And the yellow carriage-light
Blurs all to the half-shut eye.
Slowly turns the gold to red
O?er the humble darkening vales;
Little trees that flatly spread,
Where some feeble birdling wails.
Scarcely sad, so mild and fair
This enfolding Autumn seems;
All my moody languor dreams,
Cradled by the gentle air.
--Translated by Gertrude Hall

Melancholy

I am the Empire in the last of its decline,
That sees the tall, fair-haired Barbarians pass,--
the while Composing indolent acrostics,
in a style Of gold,
with languid sunshine dancing in each line.
The solitary soul is heart-sick with a vile Ennui.
Down yon, they say, War's torches bloody shine.
Alas, to be so faint of will, one must resign
The chance of brave adventure in the splendid file,-
Of death, perchance! Alas, so lagging in desire!
Ah, all is drunk! Bathyllus, has done laughing, pray?
Ah, all is drunk,--all eaten!
Nothing more to say!
Alone, a vapid verse one tosses in the fire;
Alone, a somewhat thievish slave neglecting one;
Alone, a vague disgust of all beneath the sun!

Art Poetique

Of music before everything?
And for this like the Odd more?
Vaguer and more melting in air,
Without anything in it
which weighs or arrests.
It must also be that you do not go about
Choosing your words without some carelessness:
Nothing dearer than the greyish song
Where the Wavering and Precise are joined.
Something like beautiful eyes behind veils,
Something like the trembling wide day of noon,
Something like (when made gentle by an autumn sky)
The blue jumble of clear stars!
For we desire Nuance yet more?
Not color, nothing but Nuance!
Oh! only nuance brings
Dream to dream and flute to horn!
Keep away from the murderous Sharp
Saying, Cruel Wit and Impure Laugh,
Which make weep the eyes of Blue Space?
And all that garlic of low cooking.
Take eloquence and wring its neck!
You will do well, in energetic mood,
To use Rhyme made wise somewhat.
If it is not watched, where may it not go?
Oh, who can tell the wrong-doings of Rhyme?
What deaf child or mad black man
Has made for us this penny toy,
That sounds hollow and false heard precisely.
Let music be, more of it and always!
Let your verse be the thing in motion
Which one feels who flees from an altering soul,
Towards other skies to other loves.
Let your verse be the happy occurrence,
Somehow within the restless morning wind,
Which goes about smelling of mint and thyme...
And all the rest is literature.
--Translated by Eli Siegel

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