Verlaine

The famous French Symbolist Verlaine [1844-1896] is a classic, and as summer segues into fall, it's a great time to focus on a piece of his, "Épilogue". It's lovely and serene and also strange, odd under the surface. The weird peeks out over and over, eventually chilling you a little bit--it's very interesting [read more here]:

                         I
     The sun, less hot, looks from a sky more clear;
     The roses in their sleepy loveliness
     Nod to the cradling wind. The atmosphere
     Enfolds us with a sister's tenderness.

     For once hath Nature left the splendid throne
     Of her indifference, and through the mild
     Sun-gilded air of Autumn, clement grown,
     Descends to man, her proud, revolted child.

     She takes, to wipe the tears upon our face,
     Her azure mantle sown with many a star;
     And her eternal soul, her deathless grace,
     Strengthen and calm the weak heart that we are.

     The waving of the boughs, the lengthened line
     Of the horizon, full of dreamy hues
     And scattered songs, all,—sing it, sail, or shine!—
     To-day consoles, delivers!—Let us muse.

                    II
     So, then this book is closed. Dear Fancies mine,
     That streaked my grey sky with your wings of light,
     And passing fanned my burning brow, benign,—
     Return, return to your blue Infinite!

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