“After Three Years,” by Paul Verlaine, translated by Karl Kirchwey


Having pushed open the narrow wobbling gate,

I strolled around in the little garden

Gently illuminated by the morning sun

Spangling each flower with a damp flash of light.

The simple arbor: it’s all still here, nothing’s different,

The madly-growing vines, the chairs of cane…

Always making its silver murmur, the fountain,

And the old aspen its perpetual lament.

Just as before, the roses throb; as before,

the huge proud lilies waver in the air.

I know every lark, coming and going.

I’ve even found the statue of the barbarian prophetess

Still upright down the walk, her plaster spalling

—Slender, amid the mignonette’s insipidities.

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More on Verlaine and Kirchwey, here

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