Treasure Island

Paul Verlaine

(1844-1896 / France)

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.

The roses throb as in a bygone day,
As they were wont, the tall proud lilies sway.
Each bird that lights and twitters is a friend.

I even found the Flora standing yet,
Whose plaster crumbles at the alley's end,
--Slim, 'mid the foolish scent of mignonette.

Submitted: Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (Apres Trois Ans by Paul Verlaine )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  9. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou
  10. Invictus
    William Ernest Henley

PoemHunter.com Updates

New Poems

  1. Cherishing Small Things, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
  2. As I love you, Ruma Chaudhuri
  3. Lonley Nights, Michael McParland
  4. I Cant Afford To..., Bieze Josephat
  5. Life's Bizarre Puzzle, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
  6. War's Homecoming, Edgar Albert Guest
  7. Rome, Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
  8. LET MORE ROOM FOR LOVE, MOHAMMAD SKATI
  9. His Santa Claus, Edgar Albert Guest
  10. Pa And The Monthly Bills, Edgar Albert Guest

Poem of the Day

poet Henry David Thoreau

My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read,
'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large
Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,
And will not mind to hit their proper targe.
...... Read complete »

   
[Hata Bildir]