Alis volat propriis ~ The Nightingale by Paul Verlaine ~ Poèmes Saturniens: Paysages Tristes VII, Le Rossignol

The Nightingale by Paul Verlaine
~
Poèmes Saturniens: Paysages Tristes VII, Le Rossignol

Like a loud flight of birds, dark complexity,
All my memories beating down on me,
Beating down through the yellow foliage
Of my heart’s bent alder-trunk, its gaze
Silvered violet in the lake of Regret,
Whose melancholy is still flowing yet,
Beat down, and then the evil murmur
That a moist rising breeze quells there,
Dies away by degrees in the leaves, so
In an instant you will hear no more, oh,
No more than a voice extolling the Absent,
No more than the voice – oh, languishment! –
Of the bird, my First Love, that still sings
As it did long ago on those first evenings;
And below the sad splendor of the moon
Rising in pale solemnity, a June
Night, melancholy, heavy with summer,
Full of silence and darkness, in the azure
That a gentle wind brushes, rocks asleep
The tree that trembles, the nightingale that weeps.