A Dream for Winter

In the winter, we shall travel in a little pink railway carriage

With blue cushions.

We shall be comfortable. A nest of mad kisses lies in wait

In each soft corner.


You will close your eyes, so as not to see, through the glass,

The evening shadows pulling faces.

Those snarling monsters, a population

Of black devils and black wolves.


Then you'll feel your cheek scratched...

A little kiss, like a crazy spider,

Will run round your neck...


And you'll say to me : "Find it !" bending your head

- And we'll take a long time to find that creature

- Which travels a lot...


"A Dream of for Winter" - Arthur Rimbaud (transl. by Oliver Bernard)

The Letter

Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper

Like draggled fly’s legs,

What can you tell of the flaring moon

Through the oak leaves?

Or of my uncertain window and the bare floor

Spattered with moonlight?

Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them

Of blossoming hawthorns,

And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness

Beneath my hand.


I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against

The want of you;

Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,

And posting it.

And I scald alone, here, under the fire

Of the great moon.

"The Letter" - Amy Lowell

Repose of Rivers

The willows carried a slow sound,

A sarabande the wind mowed on the mead.

I could never remember

That seething, steady leveling of the marshes

Till age had brought me to the sea.


Flags, weeds. And remembrance of steep alcoves

Where cypresses shared the noon’s

Tyranny; they drew me into hades almost.

And mammoth turtles climbing sulphur dreams

Yielded, while sun-silt rippled them

Asunder ...


How much I would have bartered! the black gorge

And all the singular nestings in the hills

Where beavers learn stitch and tooth.

The pond I entered once and quickly fled—

I remember now its singing willow rim.


And finally, in that memory all things nurse;

After the city that I finally passed

With scalding unguents spread and smoking darts

The monsoon cut across the delta

At gulf gates ... There, beyond the dykes


I heard wind flaking sapphire, like this summer,

And willows could not hold more steady sound.


"Repose of Rivers" - Hart Crane