Paul Verlaine

(1844-1896 / France)

Paul Verlaine Poems

1. Before Your Light Quite Fail 3/30/2010
2. Give Ear Unto The Gentle Lay 3/30/2010
3. Jadis - Prologue 3/30/2010
4. Naguere - Prologue 3/30/2010
5. Oft Do I Dream 3/30/2010
6. Oh, Heavy, Heavy My Despair 3/30/2010
7. The Rosy Hearth 3/30/2010
8. The Scene Behind The Carriage Window Panes 3/30/2010
9. The False Fair Days 3/30/2010
10. The Keyboard, Over Which Two Slim Hands Float 3/30/2010
11. What Sayest Thou, Traveller 3/30/2010
12. Tis The Feast Of Corn 3/30/2010
13. Since Shade Relents 3/30/2010
14. Nevermore 3/30/2010
15. It Shall Be, Then, Upon A Summer's Day 3/30/2010
16. A La Promenade 3/30/2010
17. Streets 3/30/2010
18. L' Allee 3/30/2010
19. Il Bacio 3/30/2010
20. Impression Fausse 3/30/2010
21. It Is You 3/30/2010
22. L'Amour Par Terre 3/30/2010
23. Poemes Saturniens - Prologue 3/30/2010
24. Sur L'Herbe 3/30/2010
25. Le Rossignol 3/30/2010
26. Mandoline 3/30/2010
27. O'Er The Wood's Brow 3/30/2010
28. Le Faune 3/30/2010
29. It Rains In My Heart (Il Pleure Dans Mon Coeur) 3/30/2010
30. Mon Reve Familier 3/30/2010
31. Melancholy 3/30/2010
32. Apres Trois Ans 3/30/2010
33. Un Grand Sommeil Noir 3/30/2010
34. Vers Libres 3/30/2010
35. The Sky-Blue Smiles Above The Roof 3/30/2010
36. En Sourdine 3/30/2010
37. Langueur 3/30/2010
38. Son, Thou Must Love Me 3/30/2010
39. Spleen 3/30/2010
40. Femme Et Chatte 2/12/2014
Best Poem of Paul Verlaine

The Young Fools (Les Ingénus)

High-heels were struggling with a full-length dress
So that, between the wind and the terrain,
At times a shining stocking would be seen,
And gone too soon. We liked that foolishness.

Also, at times a jealous insect's dart
Bothered out beauties. Suddenly a white
Nape flashed beneath the branches, and this sight
Was a delicate feast for a young fool's heart.

Evening fell, equivocal, dissembling,
The women who hung dreaming on our arms
Spoke in low voices, words that had such charms
That ever since our stunned soul has been trembling.

Read the full of The Young Fools (Les Ingénus)

Apres Trois Ans

When I had pushed the narrow garden-door,
Once more I stood within the green retreat;
Softly the morning sunshine lighted it,
And every flow'r a humid spangle wore.

Nothing is changed. I see it all once more:
The vine-clad arbor with its rustic seat. . . .
The waterjet still plashes silver sweet,
The ancient aspen rustles as of yore.

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