by Paul Verlaine
The moon is red through horizon's fog;
In a dancing mist the hazy meadow
Sleeps; by green rushes a frog
Calls, there where movement quivers;
Water Bowers fold their petals now;
In the distance, tall and in close array
Poplars outline their shadowy forms;
Towards the thickets the fireflies stray;
The screech owls wake, and soundlessly
Beat the dark air with heavy wings,
And the heaven is filled with mufHed light.
Pale, Venus appears, and it is Night.
Copyright ©:translated by MURIEL KITTEL
Last updated March 05, 2023