Poems by Paul Verlaine

Autumn Song

With long sobs
the violin-throbs
of autumn wound
my heart with languorous
and montonous

Choking and pale
When i mind the tale
the hours keep,
my memory strays
down other days
and I weep;

and I let me go
where ill winds blow
now here, now there,
harried and sped,
even as a dead
leaf, anywhere.


I am the Empire in the last of its decline, 
That sees the tall, fair-haired Barbarians pass,--the while 
Composing indolent acrostics, in a style 
Of gold, with languid sunshine dancing in each line.

The solitary soul is heart-sick with a vile 
Ennui. Down yon, they say, War's torches bloody shine. 
Alas, to be so faint of will, one must resign 
The chance of brave adventure in the splendid file,-

Of death, perchance! Alas, so lagging in desire! 
Ah, all is drunk! Bathyllus, has done laughing, pray? 
Ah, all is drunk,--all eaten! Nothing more to say!

Alone, a vapid verse one tosses in the fire; 
Alone, a somewhat thievish slave neglecting one; 
Alone, a vague disgust of all beneath the sun!

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