Friday, May 8, 2009


Ah! l’ enfance, l’ herbe, la pluie, le lac sur les pierres, le clair de lune quand le clocher sonnait douze …
Arthur Rimbaud [Une saison en enfer, 1873]

1 comment:

  1. Conversation Galante

    I observe: "Our sentimental friend the moon!
    Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)
    It may be Prester John's balloon
    Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
    To light poor travellers to their distress."
    She then: "How you digress!"

    And I then: "Some one frames upon the keys
    That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain
    The night and moonshine; music which we seize
    To body forth our vacuity."
    She then: "Does this refer to me?"
    "Oh no, it is I who am inane."

    "You, madam, are the eternal humorist,
    The eternal enemy of the absolute,
    Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!
    With your air indifferent and imperious
    At a stroke our mad poetics to confute—"
    And—"Are we then so serious?"