Author: Arthur Rimbaud
Quotes of Author: Arthur Rimbaud
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 the sky away. In the evening Water from the woods sank into the virgin sand, And God's wind threw ice across the ponds. Weeping, I saw gold − but could not drink. − --- At four in the morning, in the summer, The sleep of love still continues. Beneath the trees the wind disperses The smells of the evening feast. Over there, in their vast wood yard, Under the sun of the Hesperidins, Already hard at work − in shirtsleeves − Are the Carpenters. In their Deserts of moss, quietly, They raise precious panelling Where the city Will paint fake skies. O for these Workers, charming Subjects of a Babylonian king, Venus! Leave for a moment the Lovers Whose souls are crowned with wreaths. O Queen of Shepherds, Carry the water of life to these labourers, So their strength may be appeased As they wait to bathe in the noon-day sea. book-quoteIOn the calm black water where the stars are sleepingWhite 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 OpheliaHas passed, a white phantom, down the long black river.For more than a thousand years her sweet madnessHas murmured its ballad to the evening breeze.The wind kisses her breasts and unfolds in a wreathHer great veils rising and falling with the waters;The shivering willows weep on her shoulder,The rushes lean over her wide, dreaming brow.The ruffled water-lilies are sighing around her;At times she rouses, in a slumbering alder,Some nest from which escapes a small rustle of wings;- A mysterious anthem falls from the golden stars.IIO pale Ophelia! beautiful as snow!Yes child, you died, carried off by a river!- It was the winds descending from the great mountains of NorwayThat spoke to you in low voices of better freedom.It was a breath of wind, that, twisting your great hair,Brought strange rumors to your dreaming mind;It was your heart listening to the song of NatureIn the groans of the tree and the sighs of the nights;It was the voice of mad seas, the great roar,That shattered your child's heart, too human and too soft;It was a handsome pale knight, a poor madmanWho one April morning sate mute at your knees!Heaven! Love! Freedom! What a dream, oh poor crazed Girl!You melted to him as snow does to a fire; Your great visions strangled your words- And fearful Infinity terrified your blue eye!III- And the poet says that by starlightYou come seeking, in the night, the flowers that you pickedAnd that he has seen on the water, lying in her long veilsWhite Ophelia floating, like a great lily. book-quote
