Poems of Paul Verlaine | Page 4

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