Charles Baudelaire
Calm down, my Sorrow, we must move with care. / You called for evening; it descends, it’s here. — Charles Baudelaire, “Meditation,” trans, Robert Lowell, Poetry (September 1961)
Category: Symbolism
Stéphane Mallarmé
A soul trembling to sit by a hearth so bright, To exist again, it’s enough if I borrow from Your lips the breath of my name you murmur all night. — Stéphane Mallarmé, from “Sonnet: Pour votre chère morte, son ami…” (For your dear departed wife, his friend) 2 November 1877. Selected Poems. Translated by… Continue reading Stéphane Mallarmé
Arthur Rimbaud
Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter. — Arthur Rimbaud, from “The Drunken Boat,” Complete Works, Selected Letters (The University of Chicago Press, 2005)
Charles Baudelaire
To the Reader To the Reader Folly, error, sin, and penny-pinching Preoccupy our minds and belabor our bodies And we feed our amiable remorse Like beggars nourishing their vermin. Our sins are stubborn, our repentance weak — We demand generous payment for our confessions And we return gaily to the muddy path, Believing a few… Continue reading Charles Baudelaire
W. B. Yeats
Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun. — … Continue reading W. B. Yeats
E. M. Forster
There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,” he continued in measured tones. “We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do… Continue reading E. M. Forster
W. B. Yeats
Some moralist or mythological poet Compares the solitary soul to a swan; I am satisfied with that, Satisfied if a troubled mirror show it, Before that brief gleam of its life be gone, An image of its state; The wings half spread for flight, The breast thrust out in pride Whether to play, or to… Continue reading W. B. Yeats
