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Poems of Paul Verlaine



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CLAIR DE LUNE. Your soul is as a moonlit landscape fair,Peopled with maskers delicate and dim,That play on lutes and dance and have an airOf being sad in their fantastic trim.The while they celebrate in minor strainTriumphant love, effective enterprise,They have an air of knowing all is vain,—And through the quiet moonlight their songs rise,The melancholy moonlight, sweet and lone,That makes to dream the birds upon the tree,And in their polished basins of white stoneThe fountains tall to sob with ecstasy.

SUR L'HERBE. "The abbé rambles."—"You, marquis,Have put your wig on all awry."—"This wine of Cyprus kindles meLess, my Camargo, than your eye!""My passion"—"Do, mi, sol, la, si."—"Abbé, your villany lies bare."—"Mesdames, I climb up yonder treeAnd fetch a star down, I declare.""Let each kiss his own lady, thenThe others."—"Would that I were, too,A lap-dog!"—"Softly, gentlemen!"—"Do, mi."—"The moon!"—"Hey, how d'ye do?"

L' ALLÉE. Powdered and rouged as in the sheepcotes' day,Fragile 'mid her enormous ribbon bows,Along the shaded alley, where green growsThe moss on the old seats, she wends her wayWith mincing graces and affected airs,Such as more oft a petted parrot wears.Her long gown with the train is blue; the fanShe spreads between her jewelled fingers slimIs merry with a love-scene, of so dimSuggestion, her eyes smile the while they scan.Blonde; dainty nose; plump, cherry lips, divineWith pride unconscious.—Subtler, certainly,Than is the mouche there set to underlineThe rather foolish brightness of the eye.

A LA PROMENADE. The milky sky, the hazy, slender trees,Seem smiling on the light costumes we wear,—Our gauzy floating veils that have an airOf wings, our satins fluttering in the breeze.And in the marble bowl the ripples gleam,And through the lindens of the avenueThe sifted golden sun comes to us blueAnd dying, like the sunshine of a dream.Exquisite triflers and deceivers rare,Tender of heart, but little tied by vows,Deliciously we dally 'neath the boughs,And playfully the lovers plague the fair.Receiving, should they overstep a point,A buffet from a hand absurdly small,At which upon a gallant knee they fallTo kiss the little finger's littlest joint.And as this is a shocking liberty,A frigid glance rewards the daring swain,—Not quite o'erbalancing with its disdainThe red mouth's reassuring clemency.

LE FAUNE. An ancient terra-cotta Faun,A laughing note in 'mid the green,Grins at us from the central lawn,With secret and sarcastic mien.It is that he foresees, perchance,A bad end to the moments dearThat with gay music and light danceHave led us, pensive pilgrims, here.

MANDOLINE. The courtly serenaders,The beauteous listeners,Sit idling 'neath the branchesA balmy zephyr stirs.It's Tircis and Aminta,Clitandre,—ever there!—Damis, of melting sonnetsTo many a frosty fair.Their trailing flowery dresses,Their fine beflowered coats,Their elegance and lightness,And shadows blue,—all floatsAnd mingles,—circling, wreathing,In moonlight opaline,While through the zephyr's harpingTinkles the mandoline.

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