Vigils

By Arthur Rimbaud

It is a repose in the light, neither fever nor langour, on the bed or on the meadow.
It is the friend neither violent nor weak. The friend.
It is the beloved neither tormenting nor tormented. The beloved.
Air and the world not sought. Life.
- Was it really this?

- And the dream grew cold.

* * *

The lighting comes round to the crown post again. From the two extremities of the room - decorations negligible - harmonic elevations join. The wall opposite the watcher is a psychological succession of atmospheric sections of friezes, bands, and geological accidents. Intense quick dream of sentimental groups with people of all possible characters amidst all possible appearances.

 * * *

The lamps and the rugs of the vigil make the noise of waves in the night, along the hull and around the steerage. The sea of the vigil, like Emily's breasts. The hangings, halfway up, undergrowth of emerald tinted lace, where dart the vigil doves.

The plaque of the black hearth, real suns of seashores; ah! magic wells; only sight of dawn, this time.