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En nos âmes d'enfants, les seuls noms des victoires Prenaient un sens mystique evocateur de gloires; On ne rêvait qu'assauts et combats; a nos yeux Un général vainqueur etait l'égal des dieux. Rien ne semblait ternir l'éclat de ces conquétes. Les batailles prenaient des allures de fêtes Et nous ne songions pas qu'aux hurrahs triomphants Se mêlaient les sanglots des mères, des enfants.
Much of his verse especially his later verse is to me, at least, as obscure as Mallarme. But Il pleut dans mon coeur Comme il pleut dans la rue can never be surpassed for the fidelity with which it renders the endless drip, drip of melancholia, unless it is by that other magical lyric: Les sanglots longs Des violons De l'automne Blessent mon coeur D'une langueur Monotone.
It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown altho' its height be taken." "Point of five! Three queens three knaves! Do you know that thing of Dowson's: 'I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion'? Better than any Verlaine, except 'Les sanglots longs. What have you got?" "Only quart to the queen. Do you like the name 'Cynara'?" "Yes; don't you?" "Cynara! Cynara!
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