Paul-Marie Verlaine — NEVERMORE

Remembrance, what wilt thou with me? The year

Declined; in the still air the thrush piped clear,

The languid sunshine did incurious peer

Among the thinned leaves of the forest sere.

We were alone, and pensively we strolled,

With straying locks and fancies, when, behold

Her turn to let her thrilling gaze enfold,

And ask me in her voice of living gold,

Her fresh young voice, 'What was thy happiest day?'

I smiled discreetly for all answer, and

Devotedly I kissed her fair white hand.

— Ah, me! The earliest flowers, how sweet are they!

And in how exquisite a whisper slips

The earliest 'Yes' from well-beloved lips!