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Poems of Paul Verlaine.
by Paul Verlaine.
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.
SUR L'HERBE.
"The abbe rambles."--"You, marquis, Have put your wig on all awry."-- "This wine of Cyprus kindles me Less, my Camargo, than your eye!"
"My pa.s.sion"--"Do, mi, sol, la, si."-- "Abbe, 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' ALLeE.
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.
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 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 rea.s.suring 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.
MANDOLINE.
The courtly serenaders, The beauteous listeners, Sit idling 'neath the branches A balmy zephyr stirs.
It's Tircis and Aminta, c.l.i.tandre,--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.
L'AMOUR PAR TERRE
The wind the other night blew down the Love That in the dimmest corner of the park So subtly used to smile, bending his arc, And sight of whom did us so deeply move
One day! The other night's wind blew him down!
The marble dust whirls in the morning breeze.
Oh, sad to view, o'erblotted by the trees, There on the base, the name of great renown!
Oh, sad to view the empty pedestal!
And melancholy fancies come and go Across my dream, whereon a day of woe Foreshadowed is--I know what will befall!
Oh, sad!--And you are saddened also, Sweet, Are not you, by this scene? although your eye Pursues the gold and purple b.u.t.terfly That flutters o'er the wreck strewn at our feet.
[Ill.u.s.tration: "En Sourdine"]
EN SOURDINE
Tranquil in the twilight dense By the spreading branches made, Let us breathe the influence Of the silence and the shade.
Let your heart melt into mine, And your soul reach out to me, 'Mid the languors of the pine And the sighing arbute-tree.
Close your eyes, your hands let be Folded on your slumbering heart, From whose hold all treachery Drive forever, and all art.
