Parisian Sketch

09 October, 2009 13:15:00

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I, walked, of divine Plato dreaming
		And of Phidias,
Salamis, Marathon, under twinkling
Eyes, eyes of blue jets of gas.

Paul Verlaine

The Moon was shedding her plates of zinc

In obtuse angles.

The plumes of smoke like ‘fives’ distinct

Rose thick and black from high roof-tangles.

The sky was grey, there wept a breeze

Like a bassoon.

Far off, a tom-cat, stealthy, discreet,

Miaowed, oh strangely out of tune.

I, walked, of divine Plato dreaming

And of Phidias,

Salamis, Marathon, under twinkling

Eyes, eyes of blue jets of gas.

Dusk

The moon is red on the foggy horizon;

In a mist 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,

And the zenith fills, sombrely glowing.

Pale, Venus emerges, and it is Night.

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