Arthur Rimbaud

(20 October 1854 – 10 November 1891 / Charleville, Ardennes)

Song Of The Highest Tower - Poem by Arthur Rimbaud

Idle youth
Enslaved to everything,
By being too sensitive
I have wasted my life.
Ah ! Let the time come
When hearts are enamoured.

I said to myself : let be,
And let no one see you :
Do without the promise
Of higher joys.
Let nothing delay you,
Majestic retirement.
I have endured so long
That I have forgotten everything ;
Fear and suffering
Have flown to the skies.

And morbid thirst
Darkens my veins.
Thus the meadow
Given over to oblivion,
Grown up, and flowering
With frankincense and tares
To the wild buzzing
Of a hundred filthy flies.

Oh ! the thousand bereavements
Of the poor soul
Which possesses only the image
Of Our Lady ! Can one pray
To the Virgin Mary ?

Idle youth
Enslaved by everything,
By being too sensitive
I have wasted my life.
Ah ! Let the time come
When hearts are enamoured !


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Poem Submitted: Saturday, April 3, 2010



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