Picoté par les blés, fouler l'herbe menue:
Rêveur, j'en sentirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds.
Je laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.
Je ne parlerai pas, je ne penserai rien,
Mais l'amour infini me montera dans l'âme;
Et j'irai loin, bien loin, comme un bohémien,
Par la Nature, heureux--comme avec une femme.
That's a good one! (Interesting to me his mention of blue; to me as an aesthetic enthusiast the times between the 1870s and WWI are the ones of 'blue and brown' (rather than the ones of cerises ;)) since those colours are mentioned so often in verse--also see e.g. Stefan George.)
ReplyDelete"A fine line is drawing my senses together and I think it's about to break."--Duran Duran perhaps commenting on Rimbaud's "disorganization of the senses?"
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