In summer evenings blue, pricked by the wheat On rustic paths the thin grass I shall tread, And feel its freshness underneath my feet, And, dreaming, let the wind bathe my bare head, I shall not speak, nor think, but, walking slow Through Nature, I shall rove with Love my guide, As gipsies wander, where,… Continue reading Arthur Rimbaud
Unreadability of this world. All doubles. The strong clocks back the fissure-hour, hoarsely. You, wedged into your deepest, climb out of yourself for ever. — Paul Celan, “Unreadability,” Paul Celan: Selections. (University of California Press, March 14th 2005)
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)
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
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)
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
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
