Poems of Paul Verlaine Part 3

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 ba.n.a.l 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 br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 h.e.l.l 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.