C’est l’heure exquise.

“Among the trees...”

Among the trees
The moon gleams white,
Hushed repartees
Rustle tonight
From leaf and vine...

O mistress mine.

The inlet sleeps,
Deep in reflection:
Dark willow weeps
The wind’s dejection.
Or so it seems...

The hour for dreams.

The heavens, star-lit,
Seem to bestow
Calm infinite
On earth below
From realms above...

The hour for love.

“Une Sainte en son auréole...”

Une Sainte en son auréole,
Une Châtelaine en sa tour,
Tout ce que contient la parole
Humaine de grâce et d’amour;

La note d’or que fait entendre
Un cor dans le lointain des bois,
Mariée à la fierté tendre
Des nobles Dames d’autrefois;

Avec cela le charme insigne
D’un frais sourire triomphant
Éclos dans des candeurs de cygne
Et des rougeurs de femme-enfant;

Des aspects nacrés, blancs et roses,
Un doux accord patricien:
Je vois, j’entends toutes ces choses
Dans son nom Carlovingien.

“A Saint set in her stained-glass glow...”

A Saint set in her stained-glass glow,
Milady in her castle tower,
All the sweet words that, here below,
Praise grace and sing love’s gentle power;

The golden note that, distantly,
A woodland horn hums in our ear,
Wed to the tender dignity
Of noble Dames from yesteryear;

And, with it all, the charm, allure,
Of a smile fresh, triumphant, mild,
Sprung from the swan’s hue—limpid, pure—
And blushings of a woman-child;

Visions of pink-pearl opaline,
Harmony of patrician airs...
I see, hear all these treasures in
That Carolingian name she bears.

“F'allais par des chemins perfides...”

J’allais par des chemins perfides,
Douloureusement incertain.
Vos chères mains furent mes guides.

Si pâle à l’horizon lointain
Luisait un faible espoir d’aurore;
Votre regard fut le matin.

Nul bruit, sinon son pas sonore,
N’encourageait le voyageur.
Votre voix me dit: “Marche encore!”

Mon cœur craintif, mon sombre cœur
Pleurait, seul, sur la triste voie;
L’amour, délicieux vainqueur,

Nous a réunis dans la joie.

“I used to wander aimlessly...”

I used to wander aimlessly,
Wanton my goal, grievous my plight.
Your dear hands led me, guided me.

Over the far horizon, night
Glowed with the pallid hope of dawn.
Your eyes’ glance was my morning light.

No sound—save his own tread upon
The ground—to ease the wanderer’s heart.
Your voice encouraged me: “Go on!”

Yes, my heart—dark, cowed, set apart,
Alone—bewailed its dire distress.
Sweet love, with its all-conquering art,

Joined us as one in joyousness.

from Romances sans paroles (1874)

[graphic]

Since all poems, strictly speaking, are “words without song,” not the “songs without words” that Verlaine’s title announces, this title is doubly ironic in that the poems (compositions?) of this collection are among the most musical in his repertoire, not only in their melodious play of sounds, but also in the almost folksong-like form in which several of them are written.

The period that produced these poems was one of great upheaval: social and political for France (and for Paris in particular), following Napoléon III’s declaration of war against Prussia; marital and emotional for Verlaine, whose alcoholism took little time translating itself into physical abuse against his wife and infant son. Although he was not left unscathed by the political events—as a Commune sympathizer, fearing retaliation, he was obliged to move between several residences—it was, predictably, not those banal misfortunes that Verlaine turned into his romances, but rather the shambles that his inner urges, however he might want to repress them, made of his young marriage. The immediate villain of the piece was Arthur Rimbaud, the precocious visionary brat of a poet, whose admiration of the older Verlaine brought him to Paris at the latter’s invitation, and into an impossible ménage à trois, where he intentionally scandalized and alienated all the proper bourgeois around him. Though Rimbaud was probably more a symptom than a cause, he soon completely captivated Verlaine, artistically and physically, precipitating, in short order, the poet’s separation from Mathilde.

Divided into four short groupings—Ariettes oubliées (Forgotten Ariettas), Paysages belges (Belgian Landscapes), Birds in the Night (titled in English in the original), and Aquarelles (Watercolors)—Romances sans paroles was written between 1872 and 1873, and grew out of Verlaine’s nostalgically colored recollections of an idealized life with Mathilde, on the one hand—a life tragically beyond his grasp—and lapidary impressionistic sketches of his turbulent, on-again off-again, year-long escapade through Belgium (and, eventually, to London) with his recalcitrant evil genius-cum-paramour. The collection was published in 1874 in the provincial town of Sens while Verlaine was imprisoned for the notorious flesh wound inflicted on Rimbaud during a lovers’ skirmish in Brussels. A second edition would be brought out in 1887, at the height of Verlaine’s celebrity, by his friend and frequent latter-day publisher Léon Vanier. Many of its poems remain among the most widely known, best loved, and artistically admired of his œuvre.