Of a woman, unknown, whom I love, who loves me,
And who’s never, each time, the same exactly,
Nor, exactly, different: and knows me, is loving.
Oh how she knows me, and my heart, growing
Clear for her alone, is no longer a problem,
For her alone: she alone understands, then,
How to cool the sweat of my brow with her weeping.
Is she dark, blonde, or auburn? – I’ve no idea.
Her name? I remember it’s vibrant and dear,
As those of the loved that life has exiled.
Her eyes are the same as a statue’s eyes,
And in her voice, distant, serious, mild,
The tone of dear voices, those that have died.
-My Familiar Dream by Paul Verlaine (Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia VI), Translated by A. S. Kline
For her alone: she alone understands, then,
How to cool the sweat of my brow with her weeping.
Is she dark, blonde, or auburn? – I’ve no idea.
Her name? I remember it’s vibrant and dear,
As those of the loved that life has exiled.
Her eyes are the same as a statue’s eyes,
And in her voice, distant, serious, mild,
The tone of dear voices, those that have died.
-My Familiar Dream by Paul Verlaine (Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia VI), Translated by A. S. Kline
