Paul Verlaine

Your soul is like a landscape fantasy, Where masks and Bergamasks, in charming wise, Strum lutes and dance, just a bit sad to be Hidden beneath their fanciful disguise. Singing in minor mode of life’s largesse And all-victorious love, they yet seem quite Reluctant to believe their happiness, And their song mingles with the pale moonlight, The calm, pale moonlight, whose sad beauty, beaming, Sets the birds softly dreaming in the trees, And makes the marbled fountains, gushing, streaming— Slender jet-fountains—sob their ecstasies.

Beside a humble stone, a tree Floats in the cemetery’s air, Not planted in memoriam there, But growing wild, uncultured, free. A bird comes perching there to sing, Winter and summer, proffering Its faithful song—sad, bittersweet. That tree, that bird are you and I: You, memory; absence, me, that tide And time record. Ah, by your side To live again, undying! Aye, To live again! But ma petite, Now nothingness, cold, owns my flesh. . . Will your love keep my memory fresh?

Their long skirts and high heels battled away: Depending on the ground’s and breezes’ whim, At times some stocking shone, low on the limb— Too soon concealed!—tickling our naïveté. At times, as well, an envious bug would bite Our lovelies’ necks beneath the boughs, and we Would glimpse a flash—white flash, ah! ecstasy!— And glut our mad young eyes on sheer delight. Evening would fall, the autumn day would draw To its uncertain close: our belles would cling Dreamingly to us, cooing, whispering Lies that still set our souls trembling with awe.

Gently, let us steep our love In the silence deep, as thus, Branches arching high above Twine their shadows over us. Let us blend our souls as one, Hearts’ and senses’ ecstasies, Evergreen, in unison With the pines’ vague lethargies. Dim your eyes and, heart at rest, Freed from all futile endeavor, Arms crossed on your slumbering breast, Banish vain desire forever. Let us yield then, you and I, To the waftings, calm and sweet, As their breeze-blown lullaby Sways the gold grass at your feet. And, when night begins to fall From the black oaks, darkening, In the nightingale’s soft call Our despair will, solemn, sing.

for Charles Morice Music first and foremost! In your verse, Choose those meters odd of syllable, Supple in the air, vague, flexible, Free of pounding beat, heavy or terse. Choose the words you use—now right, now wrong— With abandon: when the poet’s vision Couples the Precise with Imprecision, Best the giddy shadows of his song: Eyes veiled, hidden, dark with mystery, Sunshine trembling in the noonday glare, Starlight, in the tepid autumn air, Shimmering in night-blue filigree! For Nuance, not Color absolute, Is your goal; subtle and shaded hue! Nuance! It alone is what lets you Marry dream to dream, and horn to flute! Shun all cruel and ruthless Railleries; Hurtful Quip, lewd Laughter, that appall Heaven, Azure-eyed, to tears; and all Garlic-stench scullery recipes! Take vain Eloquence and wring its neck! Best you keep your Rhyme sober and sound, Lest it wander, reinless and unbound— How far? Who can say?—if not in check! Rhyme! Who will its infamies revile? What deaf child, what Black of little wit Forged with worthless bauble, fashioned it False and hollow-sounding to the file? Music first and foremost, and forever! Let your verse be what goes soaring, sighing, Set free, fleeing from the soul gone flying Off to other skies and loves, wherever. Let your verse be aimless chance, delighting In good-omened fortune, sprinkled over Dawn’s wind, bristling scents of mint, thyme, clover . . . All the rest is nothing more than writing.