Paul Verlaine Poetry

Song Of The Artless Ones
(Poèmes Saturniens: Caprices III)

We are the artless ones,
hair braided, eyes blue,
we who live almost hidden from view
in novels barely read.
We walk, arms interlaced,
and the day’s not so pure
as the depths of our thoughts,
and our dreams are azure.
And we run through the fields
and we laugh and we chatter,
from dawn to evening,
we chase butterflies’ shadows:
and shepherdesses’ bonnets
protect our freshness
and our dresses – so thin –
are of perfect whiteness.
The Don Juans, the Lotharios,
the Knights all eyes,
pay their respects to us,
their ‘alases’ and sighs:
in vain though, their grimaces:
they bruise their noses,
on ironic pleats
of our vanishing dresses:
and our innocence still
mocks the fantasies
of those tilters at windmills
though sometimes we feel
our hearts beat fiercely
with clandestine dreams,
knowing we’ll be the
lovers of libertines.

The Innocents
(Fêtes Galants)

High heels fought with their long dresses, so that, a question of slopes and breezes, ankles sometimes glimmered to please us, ah, intercepted! – Those dear foolishnesses! Sometimes a jealous insect’s sting troubled necks of beauties under the branches, white napes revealed in sudden flashes a feast for our young eyes’ wild gazing. Evening fell, ambiguous autumn evening: the beauties, dreamers who leaned on our arms, whispered soft words, so deceptive, such charms, that our souls were left quivering and singing.

Green
(Romances Sans Paroles: Aquarelles)

Here are the fruits, the flowers, the leaves, the wands, here’s my heart that only beats for your sighs. Don’t shatter them with your snow-white hands, let my poor gifts be pleasing to your eyes. I reach you, still covered with the dew, you see, that the dawn wind froze here on my face. Let my weariness lie down at your feet, and dream of the dear moments that grant release. Let my head loll on your young breast ringing with your last kisses, yes allow this passing of the great tempest, and let me sleep a little while you rest.

Sadness, The Bodily Weariness…
(Sagesse: X)

Sadness, the bodily weariness of man, have moved me, swayed me, made me pity. Ah, most when dark slumbers take me, when sheets stripe the skin, oppress the hand. And how weak in tomorrow’s fever still warm from the bath that withers like a bird on a rooftop that shivers! And feet, in pain from the road forever, and the chest, bruised by a double-blow, and the mouth, still a bleeding wound, and the trembling flesh, a fragile mound, and the eyes, poor eyes, so lovely that so hint at the sorrow of seeing the end!… Sad body! So frail, so tormented a friend!

Mandoline
The courtly serenaders, The beauteous listeners, Sit idling ’neath the branches A balmy zephyr stirs. It’s Tircis and Aminta, Clitandre,—ever there!— Damis, of melting sonnets To many a frosty fair. Their trailing flowery dresses, Their fine beflowered coats, Their elegance and lightness, And shadows blue,—all floats And mingles,—circling, wreathing, In moonlight opaline, While through the zephyr’s harping Tinkles the mandoline.
-Translated by Gertrude Hall

Mon Reve Familier
Oft do I dream this strange and penetrating dream: An unknown woman, whom I love, who loves me well, Who does not every time quite change, nor yet quite dwell The same,—and loves me well, and knows me as I am. For she knows me! My heart, clear as a crystal beam To her alone, ceases to be inscrutable To her alone, and she alone knows to dispel My grief, cooling my brow with her tears’ gentle stream. Is she of favor dark or fair?—I do not know. Her name? All I remember is that it doth flow Softly, as do the names of them we loved and lost. Her eyes are like the statues’,—mild and grave and wide; And for her voice she has as if it were the ghost Of other voices,—well-loved voices that have died. 
-Translated by Gertrude Hall

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