An untitled poem by Arthur Rimbaud (translated by John Peale Bishop)

 

Far from the birds, the herds, the village girls

What did I drink, in heather to my knees,

Within a tender grove of walnut trees

In the warm green mist of an afternoon?

 

What could I drink in that young stream,

---Tuneless reeds, flowerless grass, cloudy sky!---

Drink from those yellow gourds, far from the dreamed of

Hut? Gold that drunk brought sweat to the skin.

 

I might have swayed a queer sign for an inn.

---A long wind swept the clouds away. That night

The waters of the wood were sunk in sands

And a wind from God flung glass on all the ponds.

 

Weeping, I saw the gold,---and could not drink.