Sap which mounts, and flowers which thrust, Your childhood is a bower: Let my fingers wander in the moss Where glows the rosebud Let me among the clean grasses Drink the drops of dew Which sprinkle the tender flower — Paul Verlaine Copy Share Image
A poem is really a kind of machine for producing the poetic state by means of words. — Paul Verlaine Copy Share Image
Music before all else, and for that choose the irregular, which is vaguer and melts better into the air. — Paul Verlaine Copy Share Image
Prends l'e loquence et tords-lui son cou! Take eloquence and break its neck! — Paul Verlaine Copy Share Image
“MANDOLINE. The courtly serenaders, The beauteous listeners, Sit idling 'neath the branches A balmy zephyr stirs. It's Tircis and Aminta,… — Paul Verlaine Copy Share Image
“Of its persistent, artless strain: Naught so can soothe a soul's own pain, As making glad another soul!” — Paul Verlaine Copy Share Image
London, black as crows and noisy as ducks, prudish with all the vices in evidence, everlastingly drunk, in spite of ridiculous laws about drunkenness,… — Paul Verlaine Copy Share Image
“II pleure dans mon coeur Comme il pleut sur la ville. Nơi tim đây nức nở, như thành phố mưa rơi...” — Paul Verlaine Copy Share Image
