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Arthur Rimbaud

On the blue summer evenings, I will go along the paths, And walk over the short grass, as I am pricked by the wheat: Daydreaming I will feel the coolness on my feet. I will let the wind bathe my bare head. I will not speak, I will have no thoughts: But infinite love will… Continue reading Arthur Rimbaud

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Arthur Rimbaud

The poet, therefore, is truly the thief of fire. He is responsible for humanity, for animals even; he will have to make sure his visions can be smelled, fondled, listened to; if what he brings back from beyond has form, he gives it form; if it has none, he gives it none. A language must… Continue reading Arthur Rimbaud

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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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