With long sobs
the violin-throbs
of autumn wound
my heart with languorous
and montonous
sound.
Choking and pale
When I mind the tale
the hours keep,
my memory strays
down other days
and I weep;
and I let me go
where ill winds blow
now here, now there,
harried and sped,
even as a dead
leaf, anywhere.
Back to Paul Verlaine
Get a free collection of Classic Poetry ↓
To be able to leave a comment here you must be registered. Log in or Sign up.