Paul Verlaine

Hope shines—as in a stable a wisp of straw.

Fear not the wasp drunk with his crazy flight!

Through some chink always, see, the moted light!

Propped on your hand, you dozed—But let me draw
Cool water from the well for you, at least,

Poor soul! There, drink! Then sleep.

See, I remain,And I will sing a slumberous refrain,

And you shall murmur like a child appeased.
Noon strikes.

Approach not, Madam, pray, or call….

He sleeps.

Strange how a woman’s light footfall

Re-echoes through the brains of grief-worn men!
Noon strikes.

I bade them sprinkle in the room.

Sleep on!

Hope shines—a pebble in the gloom.

—When shall the Autumn rose re-blossom,

—when?