Poems of Paul Verlaine by Paul Verlaine
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Paul Verlaine >> Poems of Paul Verlaine
E-book prepared by Michael Castelluccio
POEMS OF PAUL VERLAINE
Translated by Gertrude Hall
Pictured by Henry McCarter
[Illustration: "Portrait of Paul Verlaine"]
Contents
I. FETES GALANTES
Clair de Lune
Sur L'Herbe
L'Allee
A la Promenade
Le Faune
Mandoline
L'Amour Par Terre
En Sourdine
Colloque Sentimental
II. LA BONNE CHANSON
Since Shade Relents, Since 'Tis Indeed the Day
Before Your Light Quite Fail
O'er the Wood's Brow
The Scene Behind the Carriage Windowpanes
The Rosy Hearth, The Lamplight's Narrow Beam
It Shall Be, Then, Upon a Summer's Day
III. ROMANCES SANS PAROLES
ARIETTES OUBLIEES
It Weeps In My Heart
The Keyboard, Over Which Two Slim Hands Float
O Heavy, Heavy My Despair
The Trees' Reflection in the Misty Stream
PAYSAGES BELGES
Bruxelles
BIRDS IN THE NIGHT
You Were Not Over-patient with Me, Dear
But You Will Own That I was in the Right
And Wherefore Should I Lay My Heartwounds Bare?
Now I Do Not Intend--What Were the Gain?
I See You Still. I Softly Pushed the door
I See You Still. I Softly Dressed in a Summer Dress
Some Moments I'm the Tempest-driven Bark
AQUARELLES
Green
Spleen
Streets
IV. SAGESSE
What Sayst Thou, Traveller, Of All Thou Saw'st Afar?
The False Fair Days
Give Ear Unto the Gentle Lay
I've Seen Again the One Child: Verily
"Son, Thou Must Love Me!--See-" My Saviour Said
Hope Shines--As in a Stable a Wisp of Straw
Sleep, Darksome, Deep
The Sky-Blue Smiles Above the Roof
It Is You, It Is You, Poor Better Thoughts
'Tis the Feast of Corn, 'Tis the Feast of Bread
V. JADIS ET NAGUERE
JADIS
Prologue
Langueur
NAGUERE
Prologue
VI. PARALLELEMENT
Impression Fausse
VII. POEMES SATURNIENS
Prologue
MELANCHOLIA
Nevermore
Apres Trois Ans
Mon Reve Familier
A Une Femme
PAYSAGES TRISTES
Chanson D'Automne
Le Rossignol
CAPRICES
Il Bacio
EPILOGUE
Fetes Galantes
[Illustration: "Clair De Lune"]
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 passion"--"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 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.
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.
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 butterfly
That flutters o'er the wreck strewn at our feet.
[Illustration: "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.
Let us with the hour accord!
Let us let the gentle wind,
Rippling in the sunburnt sward,
Bring us to a patient mind!
And when Night across the air
Shall her solemn shadow fling,
Touching voice of our despair,
Long the nightingale shall sing.
COLLOQUE SENTIMENTAL
In the deserted park, silent and vast,
Erewhile two shadowy glimmering figures passed.
Their lips were colorless, and dead their eyes;
Their words were scarce more audible than sighs.
In the deserted park, silent and vast,
Two spectres conjured up the buried past.
"Our ancient ecstasy, do you recall?"
"Why, pray, should I remember it at all?"
"Does still your heart at mention of me glow?
Do still you see my soul in slumber?" "No!"
"Ah, blessed, blissful days when our lips met!
You loved me so!" "Quite likely,--I forget."
"How sweet was hope, the sky how blue and fair!"
"The sky grew black, the hope became despair."
Thus walked they 'mid the frozen weeds, these dead,
And Night alone o'erheard the things they said.
La Bonne Chanson
SINCE SHADE RELENTS
Since shade relents, since 'tis indeed the day,
Since hope I long had deemed forever flown,
Wings back to me that call on her and pray,
Since so much joy consents to be my own,--
The dark designs all I relinquish here,
And all the evil dreams. Ah, done am I
Above all with the narrowed lips, the sneer,
The heartless wit that laughed where one should sigh.
Away, clenched fist and bosom's angry swell,
That knave and fool at every turn abound.
Away, hard unforgivingness! Farewell,
Oblivion in a hated brewage found!
For I mean, now a Being of the Morn
Has shed across my night excelling rays
Of love at once immortal and newborn,--
By favor of her smile, her glance, her grace,
I mean by you upheld, O gentle hand,
Wherein mine trembles,--led, sweet eyes, by you,
To walk straight, lie the path o'er mossy land
Or barren waste that rocks and pebbles strew.
Yes, calm I mean to walk through life, and straight,
Patient of all, unanxious of the goal,
Void of all envy, violence, or hate
It shall be duty done with cheerful soul.
And as I may, to lighten the long way,
Go singing airs ingenuous and brave,
She'll listen to me graciously, I say,--
And, verily, no other heaven I crave.
[Illustration: "Avant Que Tu T'en Ailles."]
BEFORE YOUR LIGHT QUITE FAIL
Before your light quite fail,
Already paling star,
(The quail
Sings in the thyme afar!)
Turn on the poet's eyes
That love makes overrun--
(See rise
The lark to meet the sun!)
Your glance, that presently
Must drown in the blue morn;
(What glee
Amid the rustling corn!)
Then flash my message true
Down yonder,--far away!--
(The dew
Lies sparkling on the hay.)
Across what visions seek
The Dear One slumbering still.
(Quick, quick!
The sun has reached the hill!)
O'ER THE WOOD'S BROW
O'er the wood's brow,
Pale, the moon stares;
In every bough
Wandering airs
Faintly suspire. . . .
O heart's-desire!
Two willow-trees
Waver and weep,
One in the breeze,
One in the deep
Glass of the stream. . . .
Dream we our dream!
An infinite
Resignedness
Rains where the white
Mists opalesce
In the moon-shower. . . .
Stay, perfect hour!
THE SCENE BEHIND THE CARRIAGE WINDOW-PANES
The scene behind the carriage window-panes
Goes flitting past in furious flight; whole plains
With streams and harvest-fields and trees and blue
Are swallowed by the whirlpool, whereinto
The telegraph's slim pillars topple o'er,
Whose wires look strangely like a music-score.
A smell of smoke and steam, a horrid din
As of a thousand clanking chains that pin
A thousand giants that are whipped and howl,--
And, suddenly, long hoots as of an owl.
What is it all to me? Since in mine eyes
The vision lingers that beatifies,
Since still the soft voice murmurs in mine ear,
And since the Name, so sweet, so high, so dear,
Pure pivot of this madding whirl, prevails
Above the brutal clangor of the rails?
THE ROSY HEARTH, THE LAMPLIGHT'S NARROW BEAM
The rosy hearth, the lamplight's narrow beam,
The meditation that is rather dream,
With looks that lose themselves in cherished looks;
The hour of steaming tea and banished books;
The sweetness of the evening at an end,
The dear fatigue, and right to rest attained,
And worshipped expectation of the night,--
Oh, all these things, in unrelenting flight,
My dream pursues through all the vain delays,
Impatient of the weeks, mad at the days!
IT SHALL BE, THEN, UPON A SUMMER'S DAY
It shall be, then, upon a summer's day:
The sun, my joy's accomplice, bright shall shine,
And add, amid your silk and satin fine,
To your dear radiance still another ray;
The heavens, like a sumptuous canopy,
Shall shake out their blue folds to droop and trail
About our happy brows, that shall be pale
With so much gladness, such expectancy;
And when day closes, soft shall be the air
That in your snowy veils, caressing, plays,
And with soft-smiling eyes the stars shall gaze
Benignantly upon the wedded pair.
Romances sans Paroles
Ariettes Oubliees
Il pleut doucement sur la ville.--ARTHUR RIMBAUD
It weeps in my heart
As it rains on the town.
What is this dull smart
Possessing my heart?
Soft sound of the rain
On the ground and the roofs!
To a heart in pain,
O the song of the rain!
It weeps without cause
In my heart-sick heart.
In her faith, what? no flaws?
This grief has no cause.
'Tis sure the worst woe
To know not wherefore
My heart suffers so
Without joy or woe.
Son joyeux, importun, d'un clavecin sonore.--PETRUS BOREL
The keyboard, over which two slim hands float,
Shines vaguely in the twilight pink and gray,
Whilst with a sound like wings, note after note
Takes flight to form a pensive little lay
That strays, discreet and charming, faint, remote,
About the room where perfumes of Her stray.
What is this sudden quiet cradling me
To that dim ditty's dreamy rise and fall?
What do you want with me, pale melody?
What is it that you want, ghost musical
That fade toward the window waveringly
A little open on the garden small?
[Illustration: "Le Piano Que Baise Une Main Frele"]
Oh, heavy, heavy my despair,
Because, because of One so fair.
My misery knows no allay,
Although my heart has come away.
Although my heart, although my soul,
Have fled the fatal One's control.
My misery knows no allay,
Although my heart has come away.
My heart, the too, too feeling one,
Says to my soul, "Can it be done,
"Can it be done, too feeling heart,
That we from her shall live apart?"
My soul says to my heart, "Know I
What this strange pitfall should imply,
"That we, though far from her, are near,
Yea, present, though in exile here?"
Le rossignol qui du haut d'une branche se regarde
dedans, croit etre tombe dans la riviere. Il est au sommet
d'un chene, et toutefois il a peur de se noyer.
CYRANO DE BERGERAC.
The trees' reflection in the misty stream
Dies off in livid steam;
Whilst up among the actual boughs, forlorn,
The tender wood-doves mourn.
How wan the face, O traveller, this wan
Gray landscape looked upon;
And how forlornly in the high tree-tops
Lamented thy drowned hopes!
Paysages Belges
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.
Birds in the Night
I
You were not over-patient with me, dear;
This want of patience one must rightly rate:
You are so young! Youth ever was severe
And variable and inconsiderate!
You had not all the needful kindness, no;
Nor should one be amazed, unhappily:
You're very young, cold sister mine, and so
'Tis natural you should unfeeling be!
Behold me therefore ready to forgive;
Not gay, of course! but doing what I can
To bear up bravely,--deeply though I grieve
To be, through you, the most unhappy man.
II
But you will own that I was in the right
When in my downcast moods I used to say
That your sweet eyes, my hope, once, and delight!
Were come to look like eyes that will betray.
It was an evil lie, you used to swear,
And your glance, which was lying, dear, would flame,--
Poor fire, near out, one stirs to make it flare!--
And in your soft voice you would say, "Je t'aime!"
Alas! that one should clutch at happiness
In sense's, season's, everything's despite!--
But 'twas an hour of gleeful bitterness
When I became convinced that I was right!
III
And wherefore should I lay my heart-wounds bare?
You love me not,--an end there, lady mine;
And as I do not choose that one shall dare
To pity,--I must suffer without sign.
Yes, suffer! For I loved you well, did I,--
But like a loyal soldier will I stand
Till, hurt to death, he staggers off to die,
Still filled with love for an ungrateful land.
O you that were my Beauty and my Own,
Although from you derive all my mischance,
Are not you still my Home, then, you alone,
As young and mad and beautiful as France?
IV
Now I do not intend--what were the gain?--
To dwell with streaming eyes upon the past;
But yet my love which you may think lies slain,
Perhaps is only wide awake at last.
My love, perhaps,--which now is memory!--
Although beneath your blows it cringe and cry
And bleed to will, and must, as I foresee,
Still suffer long and much before it die,--
Judges you justly when it seems aware
Of some not all banal compunction,
And of your memory in its despair
Reproaching you, "Ah, fi! it was ill done!"
V
I see you still. I softly pushed the door--
As one o'erwhelmed with weariness you lay;
But O light body love should soon restore,
You bounded up, tearful at once and gay.
O what embraces, kisses sweet and wild!
Myself, from brimming eyes I laughed to you
Those moments, among all, O lovely child,
Shall be my saddest, but my sweetest, too.
I will remember your smile, your caress,
Your eyes, so kind that day,--exquisite snare!--
Yourself, in fine, whom else I might not bless,
Only as they appeared, not as they were.
VI
I see you still! Dressed in a summer dress,
Yellow and white, bestrewn with curtain-flowers;
But you had lost the glistening laughingness
Of our delirious former loving hours.
The eldest daughter and the little wife
Spoke plainly in your bearing's least detail,--
Already 'twas, alas! our altered life
That stared me from behind your dotted veil.
Forgiven be! And with no little pride
I treasure up,--and you, no doubt, see why,--
Remembrance of the lightning to one side
That used to flash from your indignant eye!
VII
Some moments, I'm the tempest-driven bark
That runs dismasted mid the hissing spray,
And seeing not Our Lady through the dark
Makes ready to be drowned, and kneels to pray.
Some moments, I'm the sinner at his end,
That knows his doom if he unshriven go,
And losing hope of any ghostly friend,
Sees Hell already gape, and feels it glow.
Oh, but! Some moments, I've the spirit stout
Of early Christians in the lion's care,
That smile to Jesus witnessing, without
A nerve's revolt, the turning of a hair!
Aquarelles
GREEN
See, blossoms, branches, fruit, leaves I have brought,
And then my heart that for you only sighs;
With those white hands of yours, oh, tear it not,
But let the poor gift prosper in your eyes.
The dew upon my hair is still undried,--
The morning wind strikes chilly where it fell.
Suffer my weariness here at your side
To dream the hour that shall it quite dispel.
Allow my head, that rings and echoes still
With your last kiss, to lie upon your breast,
Till it recover from the stormy thrill,--
And let me sleep a little, since you rest.
SPLEEN
The roses were so red, so red,
The ivies altogether black.
If you but merely turn your head,
Beloved, all my despairs come back!
The sky was over-sweet and blue,
Too melting green the sea did show.
I always fear,--if you but knew!--
From your dear hand some killing blow.
Weary am I of holly-tree
And shining box and waving grass
Upon the tame unending lea,--
And all and all but you, alas!
STREETS
Let's dance the jig!
Above all else I loved her eyes,
More clear than stars of cloudless skies,
And arch and mischievous and wise.
Let's dance the jig!
So skilfully would she proceed
To make a lover's bare heart bleed,
That it was beautiful indeed!
Let's dance the jig!
But keenlier have I relished
The kisses of her mouth so red
Since to my heart she has been dead.
Let's dance the jig!
The circumstances great and small,--
Words, moments . . . I recall, recall
It is my treasure among all.
Let's dance the jig!
Sagesse
WHAT SAYST THOU, TRAVELLER, OF ALL THOU SAW'ST AFAR?
What sayst thou, traveller, of all thou saw'st afar?
On every tree hangs boredom, ripening to its fall,
Didst gather it, thou smoking yon thy sad cigar,
Black, casting an incongruous shadow on the wall?
Thine eyes are just as dead as ever they have been,
Unchanged is thy grimace, thy dolefulness is one,
Thou mind'st one of the wan moon through the rigging seen,
The wrinkled sea beneath the golden morning sun,
The ancient graveyard with new gravestones every day,--
But, come, regale us with appropriate detail,
Those disillusions weeping at the fountains, say,
Those new disgusts, just like their brothers, littered stale,
Those women! Say the glare, the identical dismay
Of ugliness and evil, always, in all lands,
And say Love, too,--and Politics, moreover, say,
With ink-dishonored blood upon their shameless hands.
And then, above all else, neglect not to recite
Thy proper feats, thou dragging thy simplicity
Wherever people love, wherever people fight,
In such a sad and foolish kind, in verity!
Has that dull innocence been punished as it should?
What say'st thou? Man is hard,--but woman? And thy tears,
Who has been drinking? And into what ear so good
Dost pour thy woes for it to pour in other ears?
Ah, others! ah, thyself! Gulled with such curious ease,
That used to dream (Doth not the soul with laughter fill?)
One knows not what poetic, delicate decease,--
Thou sort of angel with the paralytic will!
But now what are thy plans, thine aims? Art thou of might?
Or has long shedding tears disqualified thy heart?
The tree is scarcely hardy, judging it at sight,
And by thy looks no topping conqueror thou art.
So awkward, too! With the additional offence
Of being now a sort of dazed idyllic bard
That poses in a window, contemplating thence
The silly noon-day sky with an impressed regard.
So totally the same in this extreme decay!
But in thy place a being with some sense, pardy,
Would wish at least to lead the dance, since he must pay
The fiddlers,--at some risk of flutt'ring passers-by!
Canst not, by rummaging within thy consciousness,
Find some bright vice to bare, as 't were a flashing sword?
Some gay, audacious vice, which wield with dexterousness,
And make to shine, and shoot red lightnings Heavenward!
Hast one, or more? If more, the better! And plunge in,
And bravely lay about thee, indiscriminate,
And wear that face of indolence that masks the grin
Of hate at once full-feasted and insatiate.
Not well to be a dupe in this good universe,
Where there is nothing to allure in happiness
Save in it wriggle aught of shameful and perverse,--
And not to be a dupe, one must be merciless!
--Ah, human wisdom, ah, new things have claimed mine eyes,
And of that past--of weary recollection!--
Thy voice described, for still more sinister advice,
All I remember is the evil I have done.
In all the curious movements of my sad career,
Of others and myself, the chequered road I trod,
Of my accounted sorrows, good and evil cheer,
I nothing have retained except the grace of God!
If I am punished, 'tis most fit I should be so;
Played to its end is mortal man's and woman's role,--
But steadfastly I hope I too one day shall know
The peace and pardon promised every Christian soul.
Well not to be a dupe in this world of a day,
But not to be one in the world that hath no end,
That which it doth behoove the soul to be and stay
Is merciful, not merciless,--deluded friend.
THE FALSE FAIR DAYS
The false fair days have flamed the livelong day,
And still they flicker in the brazen West.
Cast down thine eyes, poor soul, shut out the unblest:
A deadliest temptation. Come away.
All day they flashed in flakes of fire, that lay
The vintage low upon the hill's green breast,
The harvest low,--and o'er that faithfullest,
The blue sky ever beckoning, shed dismay.
Oh, clasp thy hands, grow pale, and turn again!
If all the future savoured of the past?
If the old insanity were on its way?
Those memories, must each anew be slain?
One fierce assault, the best, no doubt, the last!
Go pray against the gathering storm, go pray!
GIVE EAR UNTO THE GENTLE LAY
Give ear unto the gentle lay
That's only sad that it may please;
It is discreet, and light it is:
A whiff of wind o'er buds in May.
The voice was known to you (and dear?),
But it is muffled latterly
As is a widow,--still, as she
It doth its sorrow proudly bear,
And through the sweeping mourning veil
That in the gusts of Autumn blows,
Unto the heart that wonders, shows
Truth like a star now flash, now fail.
It says,--the voice you knew again!--
That kindness, goodness is our life,
And that of envy, hatred, strife,
When death is come, shall naught remain.
It says how glorious to be
Like children, without more delay,
The tender gladness it doth say
Of peace not bought with victory.
Accept the voice,--ah, hear the whole
Of its persistent, artless strain:
Naught so can soothe a soul's own pain,
As making glad another soul!
It pines in bonds but for a day,
The soul that without murmur bears. . . .
How unperplexed, how free it fares!
Oh, listen to the gentle lay!
I'VE SEEN AGAIN THE ONE CHILD: VERILY
I've seen again the One child: verily,
I felt the last wound open in my breast,
The last, whose perfect torture doth attest
That on some happy day I too shall die!
Good icy arrow, piercing thoroughly!
Most timely came it from their dreams to wrest
The sluggish scruples laid too long to rest,--
And all my Christian blood hymned fervently.