: Poems of Paul Verlaine by Verlaine Paul McCarter Henry Illustrator Brownell Gertrude Hall Translator - French poetry Translations into English

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Off, be off, now, graceless pack: Get you gone, lost children mine: Your release is earned in fine: The Chimaera lends her back.

Huddling on her, go, God-sped, As a dream-horde crowds and cowers Mid the shadowy curtain-flowers Round a sick man's haunted bed.

Hold! My hand, unfit before, Feeble still, but feverless, And which palpitates no more Save with a desire to bless,

Blesses you, O little flies Of my black suns and white nights. Spread your rustling wings, arise, Little griefs, little delights,

LANGUEUR

I am the Empire in the last of its decline, That sees the tall, fair-haired Barbarians pass,--the while Composing indolent acrostics, in a style Of gold, with languid sunshine dancing in each line.

The solitary soul is heart-sick with a vile Ennui. Down yon, they say, War's torches bloody shine. Alas, to be so faint of will, one must resign The chance of brave adventure in the splendid file,--

Of death, perchance! Alas, so lagging in desire! Ah, all is drunk! Bathyllus, hast done laughing, pray? Ah, all is drunk,--all eaten! Nothing more to say!

Alone, a vapid verse one tosses in the fire; Alone, a somewhat thievish slave neglecting one; Alone, a vague disgust of all beneath the sun!

Nagu?re

Glimm'ring twilight things are these, Visions of the end of night. Truth, thou lightest them, I wis, Only with a distant light,

Or if these uncertain ghosts Shall take body bye and bye, And uniting with the hosts Tented by the azure sky,

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