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150

Stumbling through The White Moon

Packing to go and a glimpse of Paul Verlaine
150
 
THE WHITE MOON 
La Lune blanche 

The white moon 
Gleams in the wood; 
From every branch 
There comes a voice 
Beneath the bower . . . 
O my love. 
The pond reflects.
Shimmering mirror. 
The silhouette
Of the dim willow 
Where the wind laments . . . 
Let us dream, it is the hour.
Vast and tender 
An appeasement
Seems to lower 
From the firmament 
Star-bedecked . . .
Exquisite hour. 
 translated by KATE FLORES 

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