The Poems and Poetry of Paul Verlaine.

Paul Verlaine – Moonlight

Clair de lune

Your soul is a landscape rare
Where masks and bergamasks charming pass,
Playing the lute and dancing, and almost
Sad beneath their fancy dress.

And while they sing on a minor note
Of conquering love and a favorable life,
They seem not to believe their happy lot,
And their song mingles with the soft moonlight.

With the calm moonlight, beautiful and sad,
That brings dreams to the birds in the trees
And sobs of ecstasy to the fountains,
To the tall fountains, slender among the statuary.

Sentimental Dialogue

Colloque sentimental

In the old park, frozen and deserted,
Two shapes have just sllipped by.

Their eyes are dead and their lips are limp,
And their words can scarcely be heard.

In the old park, frozen and deserted,
Two wraiths have recalled the past.

“Do you remember our old delight?”
“Whyever should I remember it?”

In the Unending Tedium…

Dans l’interminable ennui…

In the unending
Tedium of the plain
The uncertain snow
Gleams like sand.

The copper sky
Has no light at all,
You think you can see
The moon live and die.

Like clouds the oaks
Of nearby forests
Are gray, and float
Among the mists.

The copper sky
Has no light at all,
You think you can see
The moon live and die.

Broken-winded crow
And you, gaunt wolves,
What happens to you
In these harsh winds?

In the unending
Tedium of the plain
The indistinct snow
Gleams like sand.

The Sea Shells

Fêtes Galants: Les Coquillages

Each shell, encrusted, we see,
In the cave where we sought love’s goal,
Has its own peculiarity.
One has the purple colour of souls,
Ours, thief of the blood our hearts possess
When I burn and you flame, like hot coals.
That one affects your languorousness,
Your pallor, your weary form
Angered by my eyes’ mocking caress:
This one mimics the charm
Of your ear, and this I see
Your rosy neck, so full and warm:
But one, among all of them, troubled me.

Nevermore

Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia II

Memory, memory, what do you want of me? Autumn
Makes the thrush fly through colourless air,
And the sun casts its monotonous glare
On the yellowing woods where the north winds hum.

We were alone, and walking in dream,
She and I, hair and thoughts wind-blown.
Then, turning her troubling gaze on me,
‘Your loveliest day?’ in her voice of fine gold,

Her voice, with its angel’s tone, fresh, vibrant, sweet.
I gave her my answer, a smile so discreet,
And kissed her white hand with devotion.
– Ah! The first flowers, what a fragrance they have!
And how charming the murmured emotion
Of a first ‘yes’ let slip from lips that we love!

My Familiar Dream

Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia VI

I often have this dream, strange, penetrating,
Of a woman, unknown, whom I love, who loves me,
And who’s never, each time, the same exactly,
Nor, exactly, different: and knows me, is loving.

Oh how she knows me, and my heart, growing
Clear for her alone, is no longer a problem,
For her alone: she alone understands, then,
How to cool the sweat of my brow with her weeping.

Is she dark, blonde, or auburn? – I’ve no idea.
Her name? I remember it’s vibrant and dear,
As those of the loved that life has exiled.

Her eyes are the same as a statue’s eyes,
And in her voice, distant, serious, mild,
The tone of dear voices, those that have died.

Serenade

Poèmes Saturniens: Sérénade

As the voice of a dead man might sing
From the depths of the grave,
My Mistress, tuneless and shrill, echoing
Towards you, the voice that I raise.

Open your soul and hear the sound
Of my mandoline:
For you I wrote this song, for you, I found
This cruel, tender thing.

I will sing your eyes of gold and onyx,
Clear of every shadow,
Then the Lethe of your breast, the Styx
Of your hair’s dark flow.

As the voice of a dead man might sing
From the depths of the grave,
My Mistress, tuneless and shrill, echoing
Towards you, the voice that I raise.

Next I will praise, above all
That blessed flesh
Whose opulent perfumes recall
Insomnia’s distress.

To conclude, I will tell of the kiss
Of your red lip,
And how sweet my martyrdom is,
– My angel! – My Whip!

Open your soul and hear the sound
Of my mandoline:
For you I wrote this song, for you, I found
This cruel, tender thing.

Paul Verlaine as a young man

Paul Verlaine in a cafe
Paul Verlaine with his beard
Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud Brussels Oct 7 1873

Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud Brussels Oct 7, 1873

Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud
Verlaine and Rimbaud plaque in London

Verlaine and Rimbaud plaque in London

Oeuvres completes Paul Verlaine
Paul Verlaines writing
Paul Verlaine 1891
Selected poems of Paul Verlaine
Paul Verlaines Revolver
Paul Verlaine Poems and poetry
verlaine-lit-de-mort
Tomb of Paul Verlaine
Paul Verlaines Grave
Paul Verlaine Poems and Poetry



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