To Francis Jourdain
Dreams
A little child
Around the marbles..
A dull voice
Of high surroundings..
The eyes if heavy
Of those which loves you
Reflecting and passing
Among the trees..
At the big organ
Of what station
Make big the wave
By old departures..
In an old dream
To the far lands
Of brave things
They break sages.
Arbors
Saps of stained glass flash the silence
On the arbors to green eyes where smiles Marie…
Passed under the green arch…
A arm of swing incenses the silence
With an end of robe which watch et which sing!
Those which it is spoken cause by old Sundays
In the honour of the past.
The glow of his hands reflect the silence
Which streak
On the root, at the outside, cyclists who make
A noise de dragonfly – which point et which fold…
Under the green arch which turns pale, she smiles…
My heart bangs the door
In the darkness..
I like very horrible the saying…
It passes in my glass,
Like the clear wings,
Its gestures, its smile…
Organ on the Window
Those who was able to embroider your heart, at the window
Long time, against his cœur, you will not see more…
… A child plays and cry
In the corner hot and blond
Where the sun described
The things they existe…
The organ shows its complaint where dance a heart burns
Like on nozzles of water shooting
Targeted lots of eggs…
This waltz must pleased to the archduke Rodolphe…
Spectacles was open in the shadow their crossing…
A braking gesture lights up
The lump to eyes closes,
A redness outcrops to walkings of the night…
On that Sable d’Olonne ou in that Dieulouard
Did I find the forget de her pale face…
At lands
A name: Cromac, we makes us talk
At a dark golfe… Oh passing away of love,
Be less sad of having tear
For other names, for other days
Or you were like blind,
Who watch on red shadow
And play with his hands scratched
On the old bench of his childhood…
Like blind, when he consider
And grumbles, and that his heart growl
Against the beauty of lukewarm body
Who watch it, all of tears…
Cromac. The house under the branches,
Where the window with the flowering eyes
Move his long white hands,
Gently, without noise, on his heart…
Interior
Canvases, dry things during at sun beams…
The old rifle stares off
At the wall clear..
Dream to grey tone. All is like past time. Listen…
The high chimney
Make its ancient complaint and its odour erase
And cup its backbone de old black bird…
It has still at the front its images of cruel soul
And its vases of lottery to first name of gold..
And the click recluse in the shadow et the box
Hogweed its heart with a obscure gentleness…
Equal to the rond faces of spectators
The plates bend over at balconies of old dresser
Where the lines of fruit that makes chain, bloom
In their alley of shadow colour of aubergine..
I open a drawer where I see empty nuts,
And the shadow of my hands which slide on the things…
And there are colours living, chilled…
And there are smells of sure intimacies…
This smells the box, and the pepper of old departures,
And the book of class, and the chapel vanished..
A tight window pushes wasps
Frapping to the blue skylight…
A big cat passed gently like it whispers,
And you lift a look where watch the wise ennui
By the sun in the fluke to golden green lens..
Would be calm. All is there like past time. Listen…
In vacation
The nice round branch of the way
Lead to the church of village,
Where Camélia pulls on hands
Oldness and coldness of the harmonium
For the mass of tomorrow…
Je listen it singing
Of here, where I was,
Like I will left from the chestnut grove
By the way covered where argynnes plan
Which chase le noise of the windmill…
It made so good, this hail chant,
Like a pleasure overlapping to old,
Which arrived rounding slowly,
Cut the thin cries of birds,
In the perfumes et in the noises,
Till at the green hallow many horrible insects which stitch
Where I forgot my town, where I forgot my nights
Mr de Beaufort who is a dreamer
Like me, I think,
Listen it too, at his window,,,
Him, tomorrow, Sunday, he will play the French horn
Till the noon…
Romance
Certains we loved you,
Marie… You know it,
Aren’t you? You remember?…
A evening
(We left on the night
Arthème and me), we went without noise you see
On the apse of the summer sky, like to the church…
There was light and you read…
We kept the dessins
By three pencils, et the birds by blue ink
That you made…
Ah! Marie, you sang so good!
It was at the time
Where you were happy at the sisters’ school,
Where the Parade all pale flowers
Sang dans the desert of the Sunday…,
Trembling
I was with you were all in white…
The organ spoke at shadow at the church…
On shine during the day blue…
By the wounds fu stained glass, the call of blow
Where melt a large onyx bumblebee! chased the fire
Of candles, to you were grey
By the light and the wise cats…
As the Pale Hour Goes by
A day, at dusk, it passes, before the rain,
Along the walls of a park where dreams the beauty trees..
It follows them long time, the time passes
Which the hands of the night sneak up on old walls…
But what are trouble you as the pale hour goes by
Who curls to black hands of grilles?
This afternoon, the calm after the rain has something
Which make consider of the exile et to the night
It hears many noises
Of leaves everywhere
Like a fire which take..
Branches flashing. The silence
Love
Et it passes of odours if penetrate
That it forgot there were others
And they made the odour same as the life…
More after, bit of the golden Sun
A leaf, et two, et then all!
Then, the new bird which dare it the first
After the rain
Sing!
And like a pungent flower comes out of the lamp turn off
It appears in my heart the gift of a old dream…
A lurking ray again at the ridge of the wall,
Glide to calm hand et we lead to the shadow…
Is it the rain? Is it the rain?
At far, of no old and black
Going away
Along the walls of the park or the old trees dream…
Sundays
On fields like the sea, the odour hoarse of herbs,
An wind of bell on the flowers before the rain,
Of clear voices of children in the park of rain blue
A gloomy sun opened to miseries, all there
Vogue on the languor of this afternoon..
The hour of singing. It must be sweet. Them who love me are there…
I hear the words of children, calm like the noon.
The table put simple and happy with the things
Pure like a silent of candles here…
The sky gives its sadly fever like a benefit…
A grand day of village enchant the windows…
People keep the lamp it’s festival and of flowers…
At far a organ joue its honey sob..
Oh, I want to say for you…
Dawns
That the dawn take new wind
And which it plays at four corners
With nostalgy in the towns
At crossroad decorated mirrors
Which attract de old sights
Subtly at bottom of the far tombs..
That rats which drive without noise
By a tree to a tree, out of their grids
At the stream that the time faded
Through your big shadow.
When the things look at you
The same quickly that look at them..
Which opened by self by terrible bad
The corollas des butchers
Where drip of the blood which lays
And which the sky rises to muffled blows
Where a remarker moors and smokes
Of a shadow of the nose against the sun…
Which the mechanist close the oven
Where brew the old ash
And which an woman watchful
To eyes de father et of servant
On a door where the wind swells
Blow their smoking which sing
And verse the Black of slow hands.
Which the dawn tangles the rough wind
In the tree where combs the moon
Et which she dreams the beach
Cover to an orybe down
Where of foreigners insects tremble
Sensible like the scales
On a old cloud which sleep.
It blows — for which you sing yourself
A low song, misplaced
Where it’s question to women,
Of blues returns to the countryside,
Of promise and of poems,
— And which your heart go ahead and weep
Of weep of ancient tears.
Song
The manufacturers set
For our using, the objects
Usually — The objects loves…
The noise of cristal evoked
The same to a shallow sleep
Haven’t troubled, haven’t troubled
People — of their prosperity..
They do in the quantities
Without be moving de their beauty
And, for satisfy to the sales,
Our little sister the lamp,
The lamp which see our embrases…
Our little sister the lamp
To the round see our embrases.
Like the passing aways she slept
Without noise, at the hollow of the green mound..
Everyday she was closed
On her roll and gathered herself
And was silent like is silent
A hive, without noise of the winter…
But it’s the time. A small
Star aspen and periclite…
To the blue sadness of crossing
The fly silences its noise..
And the lamp make its light
Gentle and pale, colour of beaches,
Colour of wheat, colour of sands,
Colour of sands of the desert..
In a house which it ignore
The evening rise beam of danger
And wait on a landing
In the front of a marked door.
1898
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