Paul Verlaine (1844-1896 / France)
Remembrance, what wilt thou with me? The year
Declined; in the still air the thrush piped clear,
The languid sunshine did incurious peer
Among the thinned leaves of the forest sere.
We were alone, and pensively we strolled,
With straying locks and fancies, when, behold
Her turn to let her thrilling gaze enfold,
And ask me in her voice of living gold,
Her fresh young voice, 'What was thy happiest day?'
I smiled discreetly for all answer, and
Devotedly I kissed her fair white hand.
-Ah, me! The earliest flowers, how sweet are they!
And in how exquisite a whisper slips
The earliest 'Yes' from well-beloved lips!
Comments about this poem (Nevermore by Paul Verlaine )
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