Arthur Rimbaud Quote

IOn the calm black water where the stars are sleepingWhite Ophelia floats like a great lily;Floats very slowly, lying in her long veils...- In the far-off woods you can hear them sound the mort.For more than a thousand years sad OpheliaHas passed, a white phantom, down the long black river.For more than a thousand years her sweet madnessHas murmured its ballad to the evening breeze.The wind kisses her breasts and unfolds in a wreathHer great veils rising and falling with the waters;The shivering willows weep on her shoulder,The rushes lean over her wide, dreaming brow.The ruffled water-lilies are sighing around her;At times she rouses, in a slumbering alder,Some nest from which escapes a small rustle of wings;- A mysterious anthem falls from the golden stars.IIO pale Ophelia! beautiful as snow!Yes child, you died, carried off by a river!- It was the winds descending from the great mountains of NorwayThat spoke to you in low voices of better freedom.It was a breath of wind, that, twisting your great hair,Brought strange rumors to your dreaming mind;It was your heart listening to the song of NatureIn the groans of the tree and the sighs of the nights;It was the voice of mad seas, the great roar,That shattered your child's heart, too human and too soft;It was a handsome pale knight, a poor madmanWho one April morning sate mute at your knees!Heaven! Love! Freedom! What a dream, oh poor crazed Girl!You melted to him as snow does to a fire; Your great visions strangled your words- And fearful Infinity terrified your blue eye!III- And the poet says that by starlightYou come seeking, in the night, the flowers that you pickedAnd that he has seen on the water, lying in her long veilsWhite Ophelia floating, like a great lily.

Arthur Rimbaud

IOn the calm black water where the stars are sleepingWhite Ophelia floats like a great lily;Floats very slowly, lying in her long veils...- In the far-off woods you can hear them sound the mort.For more than a thousand years sad OpheliaHas passed, a white phantom, down the long black river.For more than a thousand years her sweet madnessHas murmured its ballad to the evening breeze.The wind kisses her breasts and unfolds in a wreathHer great veils rising and falling with the waters;The shivering willows weep on her shoulder,The rushes lean over her wide, dreaming brow.The ruffled water-lilies are sighing around her;At times she rouses, in a slumbering alder,Some nest from which escapes a small rustle of wings;- A mysterious anthem falls from the golden stars.IIO pale Ophelia! beautiful as snow!Yes child, you died, carried off by a river!- It was the winds descending from the great mountains of NorwayThat spoke to you in low voices of better freedom.It was a breath of wind, that, twisting your great hair,Brought strange rumors to your dreaming mind;It was your heart listening to the song of NatureIn the groans of the tree and the sighs of the nights;It was the voice of mad seas, the great roar,That shattered your child's heart, too human and too soft;It was a handsome pale knight, a poor madmanWho one April morning sate mute at your knees!Heaven! Love! Freedom! What a dream, oh poor crazed Girl!You melted to him as snow does to a fire; Your great visions strangled your words- And fearful Infinity terrified your blue eye!III- And the poet says that by starlightYou come seeking, in the night, the flowers that you pickedAnd that he has seen on the water, lying in her long veilsWhite Ophelia floating, like a great lily.

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About Arthur Rimbaud

Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud (UK: , US: , French: [ʒɑ̃ nikɔla aʁtyʁ ʁɛ̃bo] ; 20 October 1854 – 10 November 1891) was a French poet known for his transgressive and surreal themes and for his influence on modern literature and arts, prefiguring surrealism. Born in Charleville, he started writing at a very young age and excelled as a student, but abandoned his formal education in his teenage years to run away to Paris amidst the Franco-Prussian War. During his late adolescence and early adulthood, he produced the bulk of his literary output. Rimbaud completely stopped writing literature at age 20 after assembling his last major work, Illuminations.
Rimbaud was a libertine and a restless soul, having engaged in a hectic, sometimes violent romantic relationship with fellow poet Paul Verlaine, which lasted nearly two years. After his retirement as a writer, he traveled extensively on three continents as a merchant and explorer until his death from cancer just after his thirty-seventh birthday. As a poet, Rimbaud is well known for his contributions to symbolism and, among other works, for A Season in Hell, a precursor to modernist literature.