Paul verlaine poems french

In poetry, the symbolist procedure—as typified by Verlaine—was to use subtle suggestion instead of precise statement rhetoric was banned and to evoke moods and feelings through the magic of words and repeated sounds and the cadence of verse musicality and metrical innovation. Numerous artists painted Verlaine's portrait. Among the admirers of Verlaine's work was the Russian language poet and novelist Boris Pasternak.

Pasternak went so far as to translate much of Verlaine's verse into Russian. According to Pasternak's mistress and museOlga Ivinskaya. Whenever [Pasternak] was provided with literal versions of things which echoed his own thoughts or feelings, it made all the difference and he worked feverishly, turning them into masterpieces. Here is a list to help track those known to exist.

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Paul verlaine poems french: Paul Verlaine was a pivotal

French poet — Biography [ edit ]. Early life [ edit ]. Marriage and military service [ edit ]. Final years [ edit ]. Style [ edit ]. Portraits [ edit ]. Historical footnote [ edit ]. Legacy [ edit ]. Others — dreamers — are seized with alarm. I, who am nervous, made anxious By relentless, vague, yet terrifying remorse, Trembling like a coward among the gorse, Fear ambush, or the dead, rising among us.

Those great branches are restless as the sea. Where black silence falls in blacker shades, All those mournful, those sinister glades, Stir horrors, trivial yet profound, in me. On summer evenings, above all: dissolving Sunsets fading, tinting the blue-grey mists With blood and fire; as far-off bells insist Like a plaintive cry, distantly approaching.

The wind is hot and heavy. Tremors trace And retrace, ever stronger, the ever darker Depths of the tall oak-trees, tormentors, Dissipating, like miasmas, through space. Night comes. The owl flies. It is the hour Where we think of those old wives tales… In the thickets, there, there — the heart quails — Assassins, breathing low, conspire together!

While a lightning-flash, Brutal and sinister, Splits clouds of bistre In a long bright zig-zag, And every wave bounds, Convulsively leaps Down all the reefs, Flows, ebbs, shines and sounds, And, high over the sea, Where the hurricanes wander, There roars the thunder, Formidably. Nature for a time relinquishes her throne Of splendour, irony, and serenity.

Mild, she descends, majestic and alone, Towards Man, her rebellious perversity. With her mantle, starred beyond the storms, She deigns to wipe the dampness that starts From our brows; her eternal soul, immortal form, Calm and strengthen our weak, eager hearts. The fresh swaying of the oak-tree boughs, The wide horizon full of vague song, All, as the joyous birds and clouds move on, All, today, consoles and frees — Think now.

II So, it is done. The text is closed. Dear Ideas That traversed my grey sky on wings of fire, Whose breeze caressed my brow, disappear, Return now to that blue Infinity. Fly higher! And you, chiming verse, sonorous Rhyme, And you, singing Rhythms, and you, loving Remembrances, you Dreams, one last time, You Images that evoke my anxious longings.

Paul verlaine poems french: His numerous poetry collections

We must part. Till more propitious hours, When Art, our master, reunites us, adieu, Fair companions, sweet accomplices of ours! You may return now to that infinite blue. For you provided us with a calling, And the young stallion, our pleasure, Panicked as he is, after his first outing, Now requires a little shade and leisure. III Ah! Precious at sixteen!

What we demand, is toil without respite, Incredible effort, a combat without peer, And the bitter night of torment, the night Where the Work, slowly, like a sun, appears! Leave the Inspired, those hearts a glow ignites, To abandon their being to the breezes so, Poor souls! Art does not fade into the night; Is she marble, the Venus de Milo, or no?

So that, reflecting grey and rosy rays, A new Memnon, the calm masterpiece, Dawn of Posterity, daughter of sad days, Might proclaim our name to all futurity. And as evening comes, the soft air dances, Caressing your veil, as it gently plays, While the stars, their peaceful glances, Smile on us, with benevolent rays. Yesterday La Bonne Chanson: Hier, on parlait Yesterday, we talked of this and that, My eyes seeking yours under your hat.

And your gaze was seeking after mine, While we chattered away all the time. Beneath the banality of each dull phrase, After your thought, it seems, my love strays; And when you spoke, distracted by design, I gave ear to your secret: and you to mine. For the voice, as well as the eyes, of She Who makes you joyous or sad, you see, Despite a morose or a smiling display, Brings the inner self to the light of day.

Paul verlaine poems french: Paul-Marie Verlaine was a French

Intoxicated, you saw me thus depart. Is it a vain hope caresses my heart? Sweet and false companion, vain or no? Is it, or not? Her eyes, the eyes of an angel, though, Know, without thought that is, How to waken the strange glow Of an immaterial kiss. 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! In the deserted park, silent and vast, Erewhile two shadowy glimmering figures passed. To you these lines for the consoling grace Of your great eyes wherein a soft dream shines, It weeps in my heart As it rains on the town. What is this dull smart Possessing my heart? Oh, heavy, heavy my despair, Because, because of One so fair.

Hills and fences hurry by Blent in greenish-rosy flight, And the yellow carriage-light The roses were so red, so red, The ivies altogether black. The keyboard, over which two slim hands float, Shines vaguely in the twilight pink and gray, Whilst with a sound like wings, note after note Sleep, darksome, deep, Doth on me fall: Vain hopes all, sleep, Sleep, yearnings all!

Paul verlaine poems french: 'Tis The Feast Of Corn ·

The trees' reflection in the misty stream Dies off in livid steam; Whilst up among the actual boughs, forlorn, The tender wood-doves mourn. I've seen again the One child: verily, I felt the last wound open in my breast, The last, whose perfect torture doth attest Donate now. MS Word. This work may be freely reproduced, stored and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.

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