Arthur Rimbaud

(20 October 1854 – 10 November 1891 / Charleville, Ardennes)

Arthur Rimbaud Poems

1. To The Poet On The Subject Of Flowers 4/3/2010
2. Squattings 4/3/2010
3. Stages (Scenes) 4/3/2010
4. Les Effarés 4/3/2010
5. The Famous Victory Of Saarbrucken 4/3/2010
6. The Accursed Cherub 4/3/2010
7. May Banners 4/3/2010
8. Feasts Of Hunger 4/3/2010
9. The Customs Men 4/3/2010
10. Morts De Quatre-Vingt-Douze (Dead Of '92) 4/3/2010
11. The Sideboard 4/3/2010
12. Side Show 4/3/2010
13. Winter Festival 4/3/2010
14. Ruts 4/3/2010
15. The Sisters Of Charity 4/3/2010
16. First Communions 4/3/2010
17. Genie 4/3/2010
18. Tartufe's Punishment 4/3/2010
19. Stupra Ii 4/3/2010
20. State Of Siege 4/3/2010
21. Le Châtiment De Tartufe 4/3/2010
22. Promontory 4/3/2010
23. The Old Guard 4/3/2010
24. The Parents 4/3/2010
25. The Cupboard 4/3/2010
26. Tear 4/3/2010
27. What One Says To The Poet On The Subject Of Flowers 4/3/2010
28. The Sly One 4/3/2010
29. Young Greedyguts 4/3/2010
30. Clearance Sale 4/3/2010
31. Lilies 4/3/2010
32. To Music (À La Musique) 4/3/2010
33. L'Idole.. Sonnet Du Trou Du Cul 4/3/2010
34. Lips Shut. Seen In Rome 4/3/2010
35. Those Who Sit 4/3/2010
36. Working People 4/3/2010
37. Drunken Coachman 4/3/2010
38. Seascape (Marine) 4/3/2010
39. The Bridges 4/3/2010
40. Paris 4/3/2010
Best Poem of Arthur Rimbaud

Novel

I.

No one's serious at seventeen.
--On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade
And loud, blinding cafés are the last thing you need
--You stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade.

Lindens smell fine on fine June nights!
Sometimes the air is so sweet that you close your eyes;
The wind brings sounds--the town is near--
And carries scents of vineyards and beer. . .

II.

--Over there, framed by a branch
You can see a little patch of dark blue
Stung by a sinister star that fades
With faint quiverings, so small and white. . ...

Read the full of Novel

Sensation

In 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 mount in my soul;
And I will go far, far off, like a gypsy,
Through the country side-joyous as if I were with a woman.

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