Thou comfortest as music does, and wine,
And grief dies smothered in thy purple fold.
Let one greater than I, Kiss, and more bold,
Rear thee a classic, monumental line.
Humble Parisian bard, this infantile
Bouquet of rhymes I tender half in fear. . . .
Be gracious, and in guerdon, on the dear
Red lips of One I know, a light and smile!
Paul Verlaine.