Arthur Rimbaud Poems

I.

No one's serious at seventeen.
--On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade
...

A small green valley where a slow stream flows
And leaves long strands of silver on the bright
Grass; from the mountaintop stream the Sun's
...

In winter we’ll travel in a little pink carriage
With cushions of blue.
We’ll be fine. A nest of mad kisses waits
In each corner too.
...

Against a fall of snow, a Being Beauiful, and very tall.
Whistlings of death and circles of faint music
Make this adored body, swelling and trembling
Like a specter, rise...
...

I have kissed the summer dawn. Before the palaces, nothing moved. The water lay dead. Battalions of shadows still kept the forest road.

I walked, walking warm and vital breath, While stones watched, and wings rose soundlessly.
...

Oh, my Beautiful! Oh, my Good!
Hideous fanfare where yet I do not stumble!
Oh, rack of enchantments!
For the first time, hurrah for the unheard-of work,
...

Long after the days and the seasons, and people and countries.
The banner of raw meat against the silk of seas and arctic flowers;
...

In the blue summer evenings, I will go along the paths,
And walk over the short grass, as I am pricked by the wheat:
Daydreaming I will feel the coolness on my feet.
I will let the wind bathe my bare head.
...

Everything seen...
The vision gleams in every air.
Everything had...
The far sound of cities, in the evening,
...

As I drifted on a river I could not control,
No longer guided by the bargemen's ropes.
They were captured by howling Indians
...