C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
From ‘Birds in the Night’
By Paul Verlaine (1844–1896)
S
That runs dismasted mid the hissing spray,
And seeing not Our Lady through the dark,
Makes ready to be drowned, and kneels to pray.
That knows his doom if he unshriven go,
And losing hope of any ghostly friend,
Sees hell already gape, and feels it glow.
Of early Christians in the lion’s care,
That smile to Jesus witnessing, without
A nerve’s revolt or turning of a hair!
G
That’s only sad that it may please;
It is discreet, and light it is:
A whiff of wind o’er buds in May.
But it is muffled latterly
As is a widow,—still, as she
It doth its sorrow proudly bear,
That in the gusts of Autumn blows,
Unto the heart that wonders, shows
Truth like a star now flash, now fail.
That kindness, goodness, is our life;
And that of envy, hatred, strife,
When death is come, shall naught remain.
Like children, without more delay,
The tender gladness it doth say
Of peace not bought with victory.
Of its persistent, artless strain:
Naught so can soothe a soul’s own pain,
As making glad another soul!
The soul that without murmur bears.
How unperplexed, how free it fares!
Oh, listen to the gentle lay!
I
I felt the last wound open in my breast,—
The last, whose perfect torture doth attest
That on some happy day I too shall die!
Most timely came it from their dreams to wrest
The sluggish scruples laid too long to rest,—
And all my Christian blood hymned fervently.
Of God! I know at last how comfortful
To hear and see! I see, I hear alway!
How I shall love you, sweet hands of my child,
Whose task shall be to close our eyes one day!
T
Its tenderest;
A green tree rears above the roof
Its waving crest.
Peaceably rings;
A skylark soaring in the sky
Endlessly sings.
Simple and sweet;
The soothing beehive murmur there
Comes from the street!
In the glad sun,—
Say, with your youth, you man that weep,
What have you done?