Nor be too diffident in phrase,
But let your song grow drunk with wine
Where mystic unions vaguely shine
In luminous and errant ways.
Like veilèd eyes your song should be,
Like noondays trembling in the sun,
Like autumn dusks when days are done
And stars and sky join secretly.
Not vivid colors should adorn,
But shades alone when dream to dream
Is wed, and tender shadows gleam
Like flute notes mingled with the horn.
The “point” which slays and cruel wit,
And smile impure you should despise,
For like base garlic they arise
To spoil the poem exquisite.
Take eloquence and twist its neck!
And sophist rhyming which would lead
You headlong into sing-song speed
'Tis well for you to hold in check.
Oh, who shall tell of evil rhyme!
A trinket coin with hollow ring,
A barbarous or childish thing
Passed downward idly to our time.
Music, music, evermore,
The burden of your song should be,
Inherent like the melody
Of souls a-wing to distant shore;
Or like the brave emprise and pure
Of morning breezes which imbue
The thyme and mint with honey dew—
The rest belongs to literature.
[1] In French Pauvre Lelian, an anagram of Paul Verlaine, which Verlaine often used when speaking of himself.
[2] A Biography and a volume of Rimbaud's correspondence have recently been published by his brother-in-law, Paterne Berrichon. They throw much light upon his remarkable career.