after three years
paul verlaine
pushing the narrow sagging gate aside,
i walked into the little garden-bower
which the sun, that morning, softly glorified,
bespangling with wet sparks the smallest flower.
nothing had changed. i saw it all: the humble
trellis of wild vine, the rattan chairs...
the fountain murmuring its silver air,
the old aspen everlasting atremble.
just as they used to be: the quivering rose,
the haughty lily on the wind-swayed stalk.
i still know every lark that comes and goes.
i found the Veleda standing even yet,
her plaster scaling, at the end of the walk
-gracile, in the dull scent of mignonette.
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