Paul Verlaine (1844-1896 / France)
Hope shines-as in a stable a wisp of straw.
Fear not the wasp drunk with his crazy flight!
Through some chink always, see, the moted light!
Propped on your hand, you dozed-But let me draw
Cool water from the well for you, at least,
Poor soul! There, drink! Then sleep. See, I remain,
And I will sing a slumberous refrain,
And you shall murmur like a child appeased.
Noon strikes. Approach not, Madam, pray, or call….
He sleeps. Strange how a woman's light footfall
Re-echoes through the brains of grief-worn men!
Noon strikes. I bade them sprinkle in the room.
Sleep on! Hope shines-a pebble in the gloom.
-When shall the Autumn rose re-blossom,-when?
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