  (RÊvons: c’est l’heure—Verlaine) WE’LL build us stairs of filmy clouds And mount until the air is clear, Above this greasy atmosphere Of callous, artificial crowds. Away from foetid cities’ feet Where, on the asphalt, taxis skate Like sombre souls who percolate Through Limbo’s crumbling lazaret. Away from cities’ clinging noise And as we are in full ascent I’ll know the gamut of content In looking at your perfect poise. No trees shall pry with envied lust On too mature a happiness When I shall taste your lips’ caress, Unmindful that I sprang from dust. Courageously, with silent tears We’ll meet the chaos of the dawn And silently our hearts shall mourn, As at an exodus of years. |
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