Paul Verlaine Poems

I am the Empire in the last of its decline,
That sees the tall, fair-haired Barbarians pass,-the while
Composing indolent acrostics, in a style
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When I had pushed the narrow garden-door,
Once more I stood within the green retreat;
Softly the morning sunshine lighted it,
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Give ear unto the gentle lay
That's only sad that it may please;
It is discreet, and light it is:
A whiff of wind o'er buds in May.
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Oft do I dream this strange and penetrating dream:
An unknown woman, whom I love, who loves me well,
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The courtly serenaders,
The beauteous listeners,
Sit idling 'neath the branches
A balmy zephyr stirs.
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An ancient terra-cotta Faun,
A laughing note in 'mid the green,
Grins at us from the central lawn,
With secret and sarcastic mien.
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O'er the wood's brow,
Pale, the moon stares;
In every bough
Wandering airs
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'The abbe rambles.'--'You, marquis,
Have put your wig on all awry.'--
'This wine of Cyprus kindles me
Less, my Camargo, than your eye!'
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The wind the other night blew down the Love
That in the dimmest corner of the park
So subtly used to smile, bending his arc,
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The Sages of old time, well worth our own,
Believed--and it has been disproved by none--
That destinies in Heaven written are,
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