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Arthur Rimbaud

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

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Arthur Rimbaud

And from that time on I bathed in the Poem Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk, Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam, A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down. ― Arthur Rimbaud, from “The Drunken Boat,” A Season in Hell/The Drunken Boat. (New Directions January 17, 1961) Originally published 1837.

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Arthur Rimbaud

A tap of your finger on the drum releases all sounds and initiates the new harmony.       A step of yours is the conscription of the new men and their marching orders.      You look away: the new love!      You look back,—the new love!      “Change our fates, shoot down the plagues, beginning with… Continue reading Arthur Rimbaud

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Arthur Rimbaud

Chariots of copper and of silver – Prows of silver and steel – Thresh upon the foam, – Upheave the stumps and brambles. The currents of the heath, And the enormous ruts of the ebb, Flow circularly toward the east, Toward the pillars of the forest, – Toward the boles of the jetty, Against whose… Continue reading Arthur Rimbaud

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Arthur Rimbaud

The sun has wept rose in the shell of your ears, The world has rolled white from your back, your thighs; The sea has stained rust the crimson of your breasts, And Man has bled black at your sovereign side. — Arthur Rimbaud, “The Sun Has Wept Rose,” Complete Works. Trans. Paul Schmidt. (Harper Perennial… Continue reading Arthur Rimbaud

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