Poem crack 4



Total Eclipse










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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud


Sun and

The sun,
the hearth of affection and life,

pouts burning love on delighted earth,

and when you lie down in the valley you can smell

how the earth is nubile and very full-blooded;

how its huge breast, heaved up by a soul,

is , like God, made of love, and, like woman, of flesh;

and that it contains, big with sp and with sunlight,

the vast pullulation of all embryos!

And everything grows, and everything rises!

– O Venus, O Goddess!

I long for the days of antique youth,

of lascivious satyrs, and animal fauns,

gods who bit, mad with love, the bark of the boughs,

and among water-lilies kissed

the Nymph with fair hair!

I long for the time when the sap of the world,

river water, the rose-coloured blood of green trees,

put into the veins of Pan a whole universe!

When the earth trembled, green, beneath his goat-feet;

when softly kissing the fair Syrinx, his lips formed

under heaven the great hymn of love;

when, standing on the plain, he heard round about him

living Nature answer his call;

when the silent trees cradling the singing bird,

earth cradling mankind, and the whole blue Ocean,

and all living creatures loved, loved in God!

I long for the time of great Cybele

who was said to travel,

gigantically lovely, in a great bronze chariot,

through splendid cities; her twin breasts poured,

through the vast deeps,

the pure streams of infinite life.

Mankind sucked joyfully at her blessed nipple,

like a small child playing on her knees.

– Because he was strong, Man was gentle and chaste.

Misfortune! Now he says: I understand things;

and goes about with eyes shut and ears closed. –

And again: No more gods! no more gods! Man is King,

Man is God! – But the great Faith is Love!

Oh if only man still drew substance from your nipple,

great mother of gods and of men, Cybele!

If only he had not forsaken immortal astarte,

who long ago, rising in the tremendous brightness of blue waters

– flower-flesh perfumed by the wave –

showed her rosy navel, towards which the foam came snowing and being a

with great conquering black eyes –

made the nightingale sing in the woods and love in men’s hearts!


I believe!
I believe in you! divine mother, sea-borne Aphrodite!

– oh, the path is bitter, since the other God harnessed us to his cross!

Flesh, marble, flower, Venus: in you I believe! –

Yes: Man is sad and ugly ; sad under the vast sky;

he possesses clothes because he is no longer chaste,

because he has defiled his proud, godlike head,

and because he has bent, like an idol in the furnice,

his Olympian form towards base slaveries!

Yes: even after death, in the form of pale skeletons,

he wishes to live and insult the original beauty!

– And the Idol in whom you placed such maidenhood,

Woman, in whom you rendered our clay divine,

so that Man might bring light into his poor soul,

and slowly ascend, in unbounded love,

from the earthly prison to the beauty of day –

Woman no longer knows even how to be a courtesan!

– It’s a fine farce! and the world snickers

at the sweet and sacred name of great Venus!


If only the
times which have come and gone might come again! –

For Man is finished! Man has played all the parts!

In the broad daylight, wearied with breaking idols,

he will revive, free of all his gods; and since he is of haven,

he will scan the heavens! The Ideal, the eternal, invincible thought,

which is all – the living god within his fleshy clay – will rise, mount,

burn beneath his brow! And when you see him plumbing the whole horizon,

despising old yokes, and free from all fear, you will come and give him
holy Redemption!

Resplendent, radiant, from the bosom of the huge seas,

you will rise up and give to the vast Universe infinite Love with its
eternal smile!

The World will vibrate like an immense lyre in the trembling of an infinite
kiss! –

The World thirsts for love: you will come and slake its thirst.

—— (Oh! Man has raised his free, proud head!

And the sudden blaze of primordial beauty makes the god quiver in the
altar of the flesh!

Happy in the present good, place from all ill suffered,

Man wishes to plumb all depths – and know all things!

Thought, so long a jade, and for so long oppressed,

springs from his forehead! She will know Why!

Let her but gallop free, and Man will find Faith! –

Why the blue silence, unfathomable space?

Why the golden stars, teeming like sands?

If one ascended forever, what would one see up there?

Does a shepherd drive this enormous flock of worlds

on a journey through this horror of space?

And do all these worlds, contained in vast ether,

tremble at the tones of an eternal voice? –

And Man, can e see? can he say: I believe?

Is the language of thought any more than a dream?

If man is born so quickly, if life is so short, whence does he come?

Does he sink into the deep Ocean of germs, of Foetuses, of Embryos,

to the bottom of the huge Crucible where Nature the Mother will resuscitate

a living creature, to love in the rose and to grow in the corn?… We
cannot know!

We are weighted down with a cloak of ignorance, hemmed in by chimaeras!

Men like apes, dropped from our mothers’ wombs,

our feeble reason hides the infinite from us!

We wish to perceive: – and Doubt punishes us!

Doubt, dismal bird, beats us down with its wing…

and the horizon rushes away in the endless flight!…

The vast heaven is open! the mysteries lie dead

before erect Man who folds his strong arms

among the vast splendour of abundant Nature!

He sings… and the woods sing: the river murmurs

a song full of happiness which rises towards the light!…

– It is Redemption! It is love! It is love!…) ——


O splendour
of flesh! O ideal splendour!

O renewal of love, triumphal dawn when,

prostrating the Gods and the Heroes before their feet,

white Callipyge and little Eros, covered with the snow of rose petals,

will caress women and flowers beneath their lovely outstretched feet!-

O great Aridne who pour out your tears on the shore,

as you see, out there on the waves,

the sail of Theseus flying while under the sun;

O sweet virgin child whom a night has broken, be silent!

On his golden chariot studded with black grapes Lysios,

who has been drawn through Phrygian fields by lascivious

tigers and russet panthers, reddens the dark mosses along the blue rivers.

Zeus, the Bull, cradles on his neck like a child the nude body

of Europa who throws her white arm around the God’s muscular neck

which shivers in the wave� Slowly he turns his dreamy eye towards her;

she droops her pale flowerlike cheek on the brow of Zeus; her eyes are

she is dying in a divine kiss; and the murmuring waters strew

the flowers of their golden foam on her hair. –

Between the oleander and the gaudy lotus tree slips amorously the great
dreaming Swan,

enfolding Leda in the whiteness of his wing; –

And while Cypris goes by, strangely beautiful, and , arching

the marvelous curves of her back, proudly displays the golden vision of
her big breasts

and snowy belly embroidered with black moss – Hercules, Tamer the beasts,
in the strength,

robes his huge body with the lion’s skin as with a glory,

and faces the horizon, his brow terrible and sweet!

Vaguely lit by the summer moon, erect, naked, dreaming in her pallor of
gold, streaked

by the heavy wave of her long blue hair,

in the shadowy glade where stars spring in the moss,

the Dryad gazes up at the silent sky� – White Selene, timidly,

lets her veil float over the feet of beautiful Endymion,

and throws him a kiss in a pale beam� The Spring sobs far off in a long

It is the nymph who dreams, with one elbow on her urn,

of the handsome white stripling her wave has pressed against. –

A soft wind of love has passed in the night, and in the sacred woods,

amid the standing hair of the great trees, erect in majesty,

the shadowy Marbles, the Gods,

on whose brows the Bullfinch has his next

– the Gods listen to Men, and to the infinite World.

May 70


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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud



I once a youth that was lovely, heroic, fabulous– something to write
down on pages of gold?… I was too lucky! Through what crime, by what
fault did I deserve my present weakness? You who imagine that animals
sob with sorrow, that the sick despair, that the dead have bad dreams,
try now to relate my fall and my sleep. I can explain myself no better
than the beggar wth his endless Aves and Pater Nosters. I no longer
know how to talk!

And yet, today, I think I have finished this account of my Hell. And
it was Hell; the old one, whose gates were opened by the Son of Man.
From the same desert, toward the same dark sky, my tired eyes forever
open on the silver star, forever; but the three wise men never stir,
the Kings of life, the heart, the soul, the mind. When will we go, over
mountains and shores, to hail the birth of new labor, new wisdom, the
flight of tyrants and demons, the end of superstition, to be the first
to adore… Christmas on earth! The song of the heavens, the marching
of nations! We are slaves; let us not curse life!

From Absinthe to Abyssinia__Rimbaud
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud



buttocks are not theirs.

I have often seen people unbuttoned behind some hedge;

and, in those shameless bathings where children are gay,

I used to observe the form and performance of our arse.

Firmer, in many cases pale, it possesses striking forms

which the screen of hairs covers;

for women, it is only in the charming parting

that the long tufted silk flowers.

A touching and marvellous ingenuity such as you see only

in the faces of angels in holy

pictures imitates the cheek

where the smile makes a hollow.

Oh! for us to be naked like that,

seeking joy and repose,

facing one’s companion’s glorious part,

both of us free to murmur and sob?

Fetes Galantes et Autres Poemes__Le Bateau Ivre
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud


The Parents

are your Grand-Parents, the Grown-Ups!

Covered with the cold sweats of the moon and the greensward.

Our dry wines had heart in them!

In the sunshine where there is no deception,

what does man need? To drink.

Myself: To die among barbarous rivers.

We re your Grand-Parents of the fields.

The water lies at the foot of the willows:

see the flow of the moat round the damp castle.

Let us go down to our storerooms;

afterwards, cider or milk.

Myself: To go where the cows drink.

We are your Grand-Parents; here,

take some of the liqueurs in our cupboards;

Tea and Coffee, so rare, sing in our kettles.

Look at the pictures, the flowers.

We are back from the cemetery.

Myself: Ah! To drink all urns dry!

A Season in Hell__Total Eclipse
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud



Arthur Rimbaud Poetry


May Banners

Song of the Highest Tower


Golden Age

Young Couple


Feasts of Hunger



After the Flood





Being Beauteous




To a Reason

Drunken Morning


Working People

The Bridges










Common Nocturne


Winter Festival






Historic Evening









I. Sunday

II. Sonnet

III. Twenty

Clearance Sale


Bad Blood

Night in Hell

Ravings I:

Foolish Virgin

The Infernal Bridegroom

Ravings II:

Alchemy of the Word

Song of the Highest Tower


The Impossible





Translated by:

Oliver Bernard

Wallace Fowlie

Selmer Rodman

Norman Cameron

Paul Schmidt


























Rimbaud Poems

The Orphan’s New Year’s Gift

The First Evening


The Blacksmith

Sun and Flesh


Dance of the Hanged Man

Tartufe’s Punishment

Venus Anadyomene

Nina’s Replies

Scene Set to Music

The Transfixed



Paroxysms of Caesars

A Dream for Winter

The Sleeper in the Valley

At the Green Inn

The Sly One

The Famous Victory of Sarrebruck

The Cupboard

My Bohemian Existence (A Fantasy)

Faun’s Head

Those Who Sit

The Customs Men

Evening Prayer

Parisian War Song

My Little Mistresses


The Seven-year-old Poets

Poor People in Church

The Stolen Heart

The Parisian Orgy

Jeanne-Marie’s Hands

The Sisters of Charity

The Seekers of Lice

First Communion

The Just Man

To the Poet on the Subject of Flowers

The Drunken Boat


The Rooks



‘The ancient beasts bred even on the run..’

‘Our buttocks are not theirs..’

‘Dark and wrinkled like a purple pink..’


Drunken Coachman

Young Greedyguts


The Old Guard

Lips Sealed


The Accursed Cherub


Memories of the Feeble-minded Old Man

Old Coppees

State of Seige




Michel and Christine


Blackcurrant River

Comedy of Thrist:

1. The Parents

2. The Soul

3. Friends

4. The Poor Man Dreams

5. Conclusion

Pleasant Thought for the Morning

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KEGSPOTTER 2002-2012

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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud


Poor Man Dreams

an Evening awaits me

when I shall drink I peace in some old Town,

and die the happier: since I am patient!

If my pain submits, if I ever have any gold,

shall I choose the North or the Country of Vines? �

– Oh! It is shameful to dream – since it is pure loss!

And if I become once more the old traveler,

never can the green inn be open to me again.

Les Illuminations__Arthur Rimbaud: Le voleur de Feu
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud


People in Church

Penned between
oaken pews,

in corners of the church which their breath stinkingly warms,

all their eyes on the chancel dripping with gold,

the choir with its twenty pairs of jaws bawling pious hymns;

Sniffing the odour of wax if it were the odour of bread,

happy, ad humbled like beaten dogs,

the Poor offer up to God, the Lord and Master,

their ridiculous stubborn oremuses.

For the women it is very pleasant to wear the benches smooth;

after the six black days on which God has made them suffer.

They nurse, swaddled in strange-looking shawls,

creatures like children who weep as if they would die.

Their unwashed breasts hanging out, these eaters of soup,

with a prayer in their eyes, but never praying,

watch a group of hoydens wickedly

showing off with hats all out of shape.

Outside is the cold, and hunger – and a man on the booze.

All right. There’s another hour to go; afterwards, nameless ills! –

Meanwhile all around an assortment of old

dewlapped women whimpers, snuffles, and whispers:

These are distracted persons and the epileptics from whom,

yesterday, you turned away at street crossings;

there too are the blind who are led by a dog into courtyards,

poring their noses into old-fashioned missals. –

And all of them, dribbling a stupid groveling faith,

recite their unending complaint to Jesus who is dreaming up there,

yellow from the livid stained glass window,

far above thin rascals and wicked potbellies,

far from the smell of meat and mouldy fabric,

and the exhausted somber farce of repulsive gestures –

and as the prayer flowers in choice expressions,

and the mysteries take on more emphatic tones, from the aisles,

where the sun is dying, trite folds of silk and green smiles,

the ladies of the better quarters of the town – oh Jesus! –

the sufferers from complaints of the liver,

make their long yellow fingers kiss the holy water in the stoups.



Das Poetische Werk__Poesia
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud



dawn and shivering evening find our brig lying by opposite

this villa and its dependencies which form a promontory

as extensive as Epirus and the Peloponnesus,

or as the large island of Japan, or as Arabia!

Fanes lighted up by the return of the _theories_;

prodigious views of a modern coast’s defenses;

dunes illustrated with flaming flowers and bacchanalia;

grand canals of Carthage and Embankments of a dubious Venice;

Etnas languidly erupting, and crevasses of flowers and of glacier waters;

washhouses surrounded by German poplars;

strange parks with slopes bowing down the heads of the Tree of Japan;

and circular facades of the “Grands” and the “Royals” of Scarborough
and of Brooklyn;

and their railways flank, cut through, and overhang this hotel whose

was selected in the history of the most elegant and the most colossal

of Italy, America, and Asia, and whose windows and terraces,

at the moment full of expensive illumination, drinks and breezes,

are open to the fancy of the travelers and the nobles who,–

during the day allow all the tarantellas of the coast,–

and even the ritornellos of the illustrious valleys of art,

to decorate most wonderfully the facades of Promontory Palace.

Arthur Rimbaud: Le voleur de Feu__Rimbaud in New York
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud


Those Who Sit

Dark with
knobbed growths,

peppered with pock-marks like hail,

their eyes ringed with green,

their swollen fingers clenched on their thigh-bones,

their skulls caked with indeterminate crusts

like the leprous growths on old walls;

in amorous seizures they have grafted

their weird bone structures

to the great dark skeletons of their chairs;

their feet are entwined, morning and evening,

on the rickety rails!

These old men have always been one flesh with their seats,

feeling bright suns drying their skins to the texture of calico,

or else, looking at the window-panes

where the snow is turning grey,

shivering with the painful shiver of the toad.

And their Seats are kind to them;

coloured brown with age, the straw yields

to the angularities of their buttocks;

the spirit of ancient suns lights up,

bound in these braids of ears in which the corn fermented.

And the Seated Ones, knees drawn up to their teeth,

green pianists whose ten fingers keep drumming under their seats,

listen to the tapping of each other’s melancholy barcolles;

and their heads nod back and forth as in the act of love.

-Oh don’t make them get up! It’s a catastrophe!

They rear up like growling tom-cats when struck,

slowly spreading their shoulders… What rage!

Their trousers puff out at their swelling backsides.

And you listen to them as they bump

their bald head is against the dark walls,

stamping and stamping with their crooked feet;

and their coat-buttons are the eyes of wild beasts

which fix yours from the end of the corridors!

And then they have an invisible weapon which can kill:

returning, their eyes seep the black poison

with which the beaten bitch’s eye is charged,

and you sweat, trapped in the horrible funnel.

Reseated, their fists retreating into soiled cuffs,

they think about those that have made them

get up and, from dawn until dusk,

their tonsils in bunches tremble

under their meagre chins, fir to burst.

When austere slumbers have lowered their lids

they dream on their arms of seats become fertile;

of perfect little loves of open-work chairs surrounding dignified desks.

Flowers of ink dropping pollen like commas lull them asleep

in their rows of squat flower-cups like dragonflies

threading their flight along the flags

– and their membra virilia are aroused by barbed ears of wheat.

Illuminaciones - Bilingue__Arthur Rimbaud
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud


To A Reason

rap of your finger on the drum

fires all the sounds

and starts a new harmony.

A step of yours: the levy of new men

and their marching on.

Your head turns away:

O the new love!

Your head turns back:

O the new love!

“Change our lots, confound the plagues,

beginning with time,”

to you these children sing.

“Raise no matter where the substance

of our fortune and our desires,”

they beg you.

Arrival of all time,

who will go everywhere.

Arthur Rimbaud__Rimbaud
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud


Parisian War Song

Spring is
evidently here;

for the ascent of Thiers

and Picard from the green Estates lays

its splendours wide open! O May!

What delirious bare bums!

O Sevres Meudon, Bagneux, Asnieres,

listen now to the welcome arrivals

scattering springtime joys!

have shakos, and sabers, and tom-toms,

and none of the old candleboxes;

and skiffs which have nev� nev..

are cutting the lake of bloodstained waters.

More than ever before, we roister,

as on to our ant-heaps come tumbling the yellow heads,

on these extraordinary dawns:

Theirs and Picards are Cupids;

and beheaders of sunflowers too;

they paint peaceful landscapes

(Corots) with insecticide (paraffin):

look how their tropes de-cockchafer the trees�

‘They’re familiars of the Great What’s-his-name!…’ –

And Favre, lying among the irisis,

blinks and weeps crocodile tears,

and sniffs his peppery sniff!

The Big City has hot cobblestones,

in spite of your showers of paraffin;

and decidedly we shall have to liven you up in your parts..

And the Rustics who take their ease in long squattings

will hear boughs breaking among the red rustlings.


Rimbaud__Arthur Rimbaud
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud


The Parisian Orgy

O cowards!
There she is!

Pile out into the stations!

The sun with its fiery lungs blew clear

the boulevards that, one evening,

the Barbarians filled.

Here is the holy City, seated in the West! Come!

We’ll stave off the return of the fires;

here are the quays, here are the boulevards,

here are the houses against the pale,

radiant blue-starred, one evening,

by the red flashes of bombs!

Hide the dead places with forests of planks!

Affrighted, the dying daylight freshens your looks.

Look at the red-headed troop of the wrigglers of hips:

be mad, you’ll be comical, being haggard!

Pack of bitches on heat, eating poultices:

the cry from the houses of gold calls you!

Plunder! Eat! See the night of joy and deep twitchings

coming down on the street.

O desolate drinkers, Drink! When the light comes,

intense and crazed, to ransack round you the rustling luxuries,

you’re not going to dribbe into your glasses

without motion or sound, with your eyes lost in white distances?

Knock it back: to the Queen whose buttocks cascade in folds!

Listen to the working of stupid tearing hiccups!

Listen to them leaping n the fiery night:

the panting idiots, the aged, the nonentities, the lackeys!

O hearts of filth, appalling mouths;

work harder, mouths of foul stenches!

Wine for these ignoble torpors, at these tables�

Your bellies are melting with shame, O Conquerors!

Open your nostrils to these superb nauseas!

Steep the tendons of your necks in strong poisons!

Laying his crossed hands on the napes of your childish necks,

the Poet says to you: ‘O cowards! Be mad!

Because you are ransacking the guts of Woman,

you fear another convulsion from her, crying out,

and stifling your infamous perching on her breast with a horrible pressure.

Syphilitics, madmen, kings, puppets, ventriloquists!

What can you matter to Paris the whore?

Your souls or your bodies, your poisons or your rags?

She’ll shake you off, you pox-rotten snarlers!

And when you are down, whimpering on your bellies,

your sides wrung, clamouring for your money back, distracted,

the red harlot with her breasts swelling

with battles will clench her hard fists,

far removed from your stupor!’

When your feet, Paris, danced so hard in anger!

When you had so many knife wounds; when you lay helpless,

still retaining in your clear eyes a little of the goodness

of the tawny spring; O city in pain;

O city almost dead, with your face and your two breasts

pointing towards the Future

which opens to your pallor its thousand million gates;

city whom the dark Past could bless:

Body galvanized back to life to suffer tremendous pains,

you are drinking in dreadful life once more!

You feel he ghastly pale worms flooding back in your veins,

the icy fingers prowling on your unclouded love!

And it does you no harm.

The worms, the pale worms, will obstruct your breath of Progress no more

than the Stryx could extinguish the eyes of the Caryatides,

from whose blue sills fell tears of sidereal gold.

Although it is frightful to see you again

covered in this fashion; although no city was ever made

into a more foul-smelling ulcer

on the face of green Nature, the Poet says to you:

‘Your beauty is Marvelous!’ The tempest sealed you in supreme poetry;

the huge stirring of strength comes to your aid;

your work comes to the boil, death groans, O chosen City!

Hoard in your heart the stridors of the ominous trumpet.

The Poet will take the sobs of the Infamous

the hate of the Galley-slaves, the clamour of the Damned;

and the beams of his love will scourge Womankind.

His verses will leap out: There’s for you! There! Villains! -Society,

and everything, is restored: – the orgies are weeping

with dry sobs in the old brothels:

and on the reddened walls the gaslights in frenzy flare

balefully upwards to the wan blue skies!

May 1871


Rimbaud: Texte Integral__Lettres du Harare
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud


Paroxysms of Caesar

This man,
pale, walks the flowering lawns,

Dressed in black, cigar between his teeth.

The pale man thinks about the Tuileries

In flower…and at times his dead eye flames.

His twenty years of orgy have made him drink!

He told himself: ‘I will extinguish

Liberty As I put out a candle– softly, politely…’

Liberty lives again! He feels worn out.

They’ve caught him. Now what name trembles

On his silent lips? What quick regret?

No one will know: the Emperor’s eye is dead.

He sees again, perhaps, the man in the pince-nez…

And watches drifting from his lighted cigar,

Like evenings at St. Cloud, a thin blue haze.

A Season in Hell & Illuminations__Rimbaud Complete
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Rimbaud . Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud


Thought for the Morning

four o’clock on a summer morning,

The Sleep of love still lasts.

Under the spinneys the dawn disperses scents

Of the festive night.

But down there in the huge workshop

Near the Hesperidean sun,

The carpenters in their shirtsleeves

are already astir.

Peaceful in the midst of their wilderness of foam,

They are preparing the costly canopies

Where the riches of the city

Will smile beneath painted skies.

Ah ! for these charming labourer’s sakes

Subjects of a king of Babylon,

Venus ! leave Lovers for a little while,

Whose souls are wearing crowns.

O Queen of the Sheperds!

Take strong liquor to the workers,

So that their strength may be calmed

Until the sea-bathe at noon.


Somebody Else__Rimbaud
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