Friday, October 5, 2012

Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)


(Poèmes Saturniens: Paysages Tristes VI, L’Heure du Berger)

The moon is red on the misted horizon;
In a fog that dances, the meadow
Sleeps in the smoke, frogs bellow
In green reeds through which frissons run;

The lilies close their shutters,
The poplars stretch far away,
Tall and serried, their spectres stray;
Among bushes the fireflies flicker;

The owls are awake, in soundless flight
They row through the air on heavy wings,
The zenith fills, sombrely glowing.
Pale Venus emerges, and it is Night.

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