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d9ba63c
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A thousand Dreams within me softly burn: From time to time my heart is like some oak Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn.
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Arthur Rimbaud |
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62f9ba0
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I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; Garlands from window to window; Golden chains from star to star ... And I dance.
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Arthur Rimbaud |
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a212eb6
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Evening prayer I spend my life sitting, like an angel in a barber's chair, Holding a beer mug with deep-cut designs, My neck and gut both bent, while in the air A weightless veil of pipe smoke hangs. Like steaming dung within an old dovecote A thousand Dreams within me softly burn: From time to time my heart is like some oak Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn. And then, when I have swallowed down my Dreams In thirty, forty mugs ..
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Arthur Rimbaud |
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c012653
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I On the calm black water where the stars are sleeping White Ophelia floats like a great lily; Floats very slowly, lying in her long veils... - In the far-off woods you can hear them sound the mort. For more than a thousand years sad Ophelia Has passed, a white phantom, down the long black river. For more than a thousand years her sweet madness Has murmured its ballad to the evening breeze. The wind kisses her breasts and unfolds in a wreat..
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Arthur Rimbaud |
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89c8d22
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Far from birds, from flocks and village girls, What did I drink, on my knees in the heather Surrounded by a sweet wood of hazel trees, In the warm and green mist of the afternoon? What could I drink from that young Oise, - Voiceless elms, flowerless grass, an overcast sky! - Drinking from these yellow gourds, far from the hut I loved? Some golden spirit that made me sweat. I would have made a dubious sign for an inn. - A storm came to chase..
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Arthur Rimbaud |
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d07ff6d
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I'm the Saint praying on a balcony - like peaceful beasts grazing along the Sea of Palestine. I'm the scholar in a plain reading chair. Branches and rain beat the library windows. I'm the pedestrian on the high road through the stunted woods; the sound of floodgates drowns out my footsteps. I stare at the melancholy wash of another golden sunset... The path is harsh. The hillocks are weed. The air is still. How far we are from birds and s..
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Arthur Rimbaud |