Poems of Paul Verlaine

Excerpt

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 air
Of being sad in their fantastic trim.

The while they celebrate in minor strain
Triumphant 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 stone
The fountains tall to sob with ecstasy.

"The abbé rambles."—"You, marquis,
Have put your wig on all awry."—
"This wine of Cyprus kindles me
Less, my Camargo, than your eye!"

"My passion"—"Do, mi, sol, la, si."—
"Abbé, your villany lies bare."—
"Mesdames, I climb up yonder tree
And fetch a star down, I declare."

"Let each kiss his own lady, then
The 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 grows
The moss on the old seats, she wends her way
With mincing graces and affected airs,
Such as more oft a petted parrot wears.
Her long gown with the train is blue; the fan
She spreads between her jewelled fingers slim
Is merry with a love-scene, of so dim
Suggestion, her eyes smile the while they scan.
Blonde; dainty nose; plump, cherry lips, divine
With pride unconscious.—Subtler, certainly,
Than is the mouche there set to underline
The rather foolish brightness of the eye.

The milky sky, the hazy, slender trees,
Seem smiling on the light costumes we wear,—
Our gauzy floating veils that have an air
Of wings, our satins fluttering in the breeze.

And in the marble bowl the ripples gleam,
And through the lindens of the avenue
The sifted golden sun comes to us blue
And 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 fall
To 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 disdain
The 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 dear
That with gay music and light dance
Have led us, pensive pilgrims, here.

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.

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