(Rêvons: c’est l’heure—Verlaine)
WE’LL build us stairs of filmy clouds
And mount until the air is clear,
Above this greasy atmosphere
Of callous, artificial crowds.
Away from fœtid cities’ feet
Where, on the asphalt, taxis skate
Like sombre souls who percolate
Through Limbo’s crumbling lazaret.
Away from cities’ clinging noise