* * *

Paul Verlaine

 (Poèmes Saturniens: Caprices I, Femme et Chatte)

She was playing with her cat:
And it was lovely to see
The white hand and white paw
Fight, in shadows of eve.

She hid – little wicked one! –
In black silk mittens
Claws of murderous agate,
Fierce and bright as kittens’.

The other too was full of sweetness,
Sheathing her sharp talons’ caress,
Though the devil lacked nothing there…

And in the bedroom, where sonorous
Ethereal laughter tinkled in air,
Shone four points of phosphorus.

Song Of The Artless Ones

(Poèmes Saturniens: Caprices III, La Chanson des Ingénues)

We are the artless ones,
Hair braided, eyes blue,
Who live almost hidden from view
In novels barely read.

We walk, arms interlaced,
And the day’s not so pure
As the depths of our thoughts,
And our dreams are azure.

And we run through the fields
And we laugh and we chatter,
From dawn to evening,
We chase butterflies’ shadows:

And shepherdesses’ bonnets
Protect our freshness
And our dresses – so thin –
Are of perfect whiteness.

The Don Juans, the Lotharios,
The Knights all eyes,
Pay their respects to us,
Their greetings and sighs:

In vain though, their grimaces:
They bruise their noses,
On ironic pleats
Of our vanishing dresses:
 
And our innocence still
Mocks the fantasies
Of those tilters at windmills
Though sometimes we feel

Our hearts beat fiercely
With clandestine dreams,
Knowing we’ll be future
Lovers of libertines.