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One Hundred and One Poems by Paul Verlaine: A Bilingual Edition
French poet Paul Verlaine, a major representative of the Symbolist Movement during the latter half of the nineteenth century, was one of the most gifted and prolific poets of his time. Norman Shapiro's superb translations display Verlaine's ability to transform into timeless verse the essence of everyday life and make evident the reasons for his renown in France and throughout the Western world.
"Shapiro's skillfully rhymed formal translations are outstanding." — St. Louis Post-Dispatch "Best Book of 1999"
"Paul Verlaine's rich, stylized, widely-variable oeuvre can now be traced through his thirty years of published volumes, from 1866 to 1896, in a set of luminous new translations by Norman Shapiro. . . . [His] unique translations of this whimsical, agonized music are more than adequate to bring the multifarious Verlaine to a new generation of English speakers." —Genevieve Abravanel, Harvard Review
"Shapiro demonstrates his phenomenal ability to find new rhymes and always follows Verlaine's rhyme schemes." —Carrol F. Coates, ATA Chronicle
"Shapiro's skillfully rhymed formal translations are outstanding." — St. Louis Post-Dispatch "Best Book of 1999"
"Paul Verlaine's rich, stylized, widely-variable oeuvre can now be traced through his thirty years of published volumes, from 1866 to 1896, in a set of luminous new translations by Norman Shapiro. . . . [His] unique translations of this whimsical, agonized music are more than adequate to bring the multifarious Verlaine to a new generation of English speakers." —Genevieve Abravanel, Harvard Review
"Shapiro demonstrates his phenomenal ability to find new rhymes and always follows Verlaine's rhyme schemes." —Carrol F. Coates, ATA Chronicle
292 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1999
20 people are currently reading
704 people want to read
About the author
Paul Verlaine
773 books414 followersPaul-Marie Verlaine was a French poet associated with the Symbolist movement. He is considered one of the greatest representatives of the fin de siècle in international and French poetry.
Despite Rimbaud admiring his poetry, these poets had a stormy affair which led to Verlaine's incarceration after shooting Rimbaud. This incident indirectly preceded his re-conversion to Roman Catholicism.
Verlaine's last years were particularly marked by alcoholism, drug addiction and poverty.
His poems have inspired many composers, such as Chopin, Fauré and Poldowski.
Art Poétique describes his decadent style and alludes to the relevance of nuances and veils in poetry.
Despite Rimbaud admiring his poetry, these poets had a stormy affair which led to Verlaine's incarceration after shooting Rimbaud. This incident indirectly preceded his re-conversion to Roman Catholicism.
Verlaine's last years were particularly marked by alcoholism, drug addiction and poverty.
His poems have inspired many composers, such as Chopin, Fauré and Poldowski.
Art Poétique describes his decadent style and alludes to the relevance of nuances and veils in poetry.
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Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews
September 17, 2023
Beautiful, representative anthology of the work of Verlaine, good chronological spread.
November 2, 2016
Seashells
Each seashell in the walls where we
Made love—our grotto rendezvous—
Has its own special property
One has our souls’ deep crimson hue
Snatched from our hearts’ blood when I flare
And flame with passion, as do you;
This one affects that look you wear—
Languid and pale—when, listless, spent,
You scold me for my mocking air:
This one would sport the innocent
Curve of your ear; that one, like bud
Of rose, your neck’s: pink, corpulent;
But one there was that fired my blood.
--
In Muted Tone
Gently, let us steep our love
In the silence deep, as thus,
Branches arching high above
Twine their shadows over us.
Let us blend our souls as one,
Hearts’ and senses’ ecstasies,
Evergreen, in unison
With the pines’ vague lethargies.
Dim your eyes and, heart at rest,
Freed from all futile endeavor,
Arms crossed on your slumbering breast,
Banish vain desire forever.
Let us yield then, you and I,
To the waftings, calm and sweet,
As their breeze-blown lullaby
Sways the gold grass at your feet.
And, when night begins to fall
From the black oaks, darkening,
In the nightingale’s soft call
Our despair will, solemn, sing.
--
Like city’s rain, my heart...
Like city’s rain, my heart
Rains teardrops too. What now,
This languorous ache, this smart
That pierces, wounds my heart?
Gentle, the sound of rain
Pattering roof and ground!
Ah, for the heart in pain,
Sweet is the sound of rain!
Tears rain—but who knows why?—
And fill my heartsick heart.
No faithless lover’s lie?...
It mourns, and who knows why?
And nothing pains me so—
With neither love nor hate—
As simply not to know
Why my heart suffers so.
--
Languor
I am the Empire as the decadence
Draws to a close: midst Vandals’ conquest, I
Compose my fey rhymes, my acrostics wry,
A-dance with languid, sun-gilt indolence.
A dense ennui sickens my soul, my sense.
I’m told that bloody battles rage hard by:
Why can I not—slow, flaccid-witted—why
Will I not flower, a bit, life’s impotence?
Why can I—will I—not die just a bit!
Ah! Nothing left to drink? You laugh,
Bathyllus!
Nothing to say! No food, no drink to fill us!
Only a poem; into the fire with it!
Only a randy slave to let you languish;
Only a vague ennui’s dim, obscure anguish.
--
I dreamed of you last night; and you...
I dreamed of you last night; and you
Swooned in a thousand posturings,
Warbling and cooing a myriad things...
And me, I kissed you through and through,
As one might suck a fruit, all round,
Everywhere—hill, plain, valley, mound.
I was a pliant spring, elastic,
Coiling, uncoiling. Damn! My back,
My gasps... Ah, what a firm attack!
And you, my sweet, no less fantastic:
Your back, your gasps, your bouncings, boundings,
Like a gazelle, spanned the surroundings...
When I awoke to your caress,
The same delights were ours: not less,
But more our festive lustfulness!
--
On a Copy of Les Fleurs du mal
These poems, strange, are, to my mind,
Like the strange poems that might have sprung
From a Marquis de Sade, refined,
If he could speak the angels’ tongue.
--
Quatrain
With neither joy nor penitence
In these lethargic times, the one
And only laugh that still makes sense
Comes from a grinning skeleton.
Each seashell in the walls where we
Made love—our grotto rendezvous—
Has its own special property
One has our souls’ deep crimson hue
Snatched from our hearts’ blood when I flare
And flame with passion, as do you;
This one affects that look you wear—
Languid and pale—when, listless, spent,
You scold me for my mocking air:
This one would sport the innocent
Curve of your ear; that one, like bud
Of rose, your neck’s: pink, corpulent;
But one there was that fired my blood.
--
In Muted Tone
Gently, let us steep our love
In the silence deep, as thus,
Branches arching high above
Twine their shadows over us.
Let us blend our souls as one,
Hearts’ and senses’ ecstasies,
Evergreen, in unison
With the pines’ vague lethargies.
Dim your eyes and, heart at rest,
Freed from all futile endeavor,
Arms crossed on your slumbering breast,
Banish vain desire forever.
Let us yield then, you and I,
To the waftings, calm and sweet,
As their breeze-blown lullaby
Sways the gold grass at your feet.
And, when night begins to fall
From the black oaks, darkening,
In the nightingale’s soft call
Our despair will, solemn, sing.
--
Like city’s rain, my heart...
Like city’s rain, my heart
Rains teardrops too. What now,
This languorous ache, this smart
That pierces, wounds my heart?
Gentle, the sound of rain
Pattering roof and ground!
Ah, for the heart in pain,
Sweet is the sound of rain!
Tears rain—but who knows why?—
And fill my heartsick heart.
No faithless lover’s lie?...
It mourns, and who knows why?
And nothing pains me so—
With neither love nor hate—
As simply not to know
Why my heart suffers so.
--
Languor
I am the Empire as the decadence
Draws to a close: midst Vandals’ conquest, I
Compose my fey rhymes, my acrostics wry,
A-dance with languid, sun-gilt indolence.
A dense ennui sickens my soul, my sense.
I’m told that bloody battles rage hard by:
Why can I not—slow, flaccid-witted—why
Will I not flower, a bit, life’s impotence?
Why can I—will I—not die just a bit!
Ah! Nothing left to drink? You laugh,
Bathyllus!
Nothing to say! No food, no drink to fill us!
Only a poem; into the fire with it!
Only a randy slave to let you languish;
Only a vague ennui’s dim, obscure anguish.
--
I dreamed of you last night; and you...
I dreamed of you last night; and you
Swooned in a thousand posturings,
Warbling and cooing a myriad things...
And me, I kissed you through and through,
As one might suck a fruit, all round,
Everywhere—hill, plain, valley, mound.
I was a pliant spring, elastic,
Coiling, uncoiling. Damn! My back,
My gasps... Ah, what a firm attack!
And you, my sweet, no less fantastic:
Your back, your gasps, your bouncings, boundings,
Like a gazelle, spanned the surroundings...
When I awoke to your caress,
The same delights were ours: not less,
But more our festive lustfulness!
--
On a Copy of Les Fleurs du mal
These poems, strange, are, to my mind,
Like the strange poems that might have sprung
From a Marquis de Sade, refined,
If he could speak the angels’ tongue.
--
Quatrain
With neither joy nor penitence
In these lethargic times, the one
And only laugh that still makes sense
Comes from a grinning skeleton.
Want to read
February 21, 2008Found another great poet. Here's a taster..
The Young Fools (Les Ingénus)
by Paul Verlaine
Translated by Louis Simpson
High-heels were struggling with a full-length dress
So that, between the wind and the terrain,
At times a shining stocking would be seen,
And gone too soon. We liked that foolishness.
Also, at times a jealous insect's dart
Bothered out beauties. Suddenly a white
Nape flashed beneath the branches, and this sight
Was a delicate feast for a young fool's heart.
Evening fell, equivocal, dissembling,
The women who hung dreaming on our arms
Spoke in low voices, words that had such charms
That ever since our stunned soul has been trembling.
His personal life sounds very volatile also..did a stint in prison for shooting at his lover, but then came out of the joint with a great novel apparently. Will mark that to-read also.
The Young Fools (Les Ingénus)
by Paul Verlaine
Translated by Louis Simpson
High-heels were struggling with a full-length dress
So that, between the wind and the terrain,
At times a shining stocking would be seen,
And gone too soon. We liked that foolishness.
Also, at times a jealous insect's dart
Bothered out beauties. Suddenly a white
Nape flashed beneath the branches, and this sight
Was a delicate feast for a young fool's heart.
Evening fell, equivocal, dissembling,
The women who hung dreaming on our arms
Spoke in low voices, words that had such charms
That ever since our stunned soul has been trembling.
His personal life sounds very volatile also..did a stint in prison for shooting at his lover, but then came out of the joint with a great novel apparently. Will mark that to-read also.
July 16, 2022
french poetry…am i right? i wasn’t a fan of the amount of poems there were about death towards the end but that’s a reflection only of my personal tastes and not of verlaine’s talent. i was blown away by how well these captured my love for the little moments in life through snapshots of romantic admiration and cats sleeping in inns, as well as my love and gratitude for the opportunity to experience life as a whole. so glad this was one of my first experiences in the world of poetry, i can’t wait to meander through the countless other works this genre has to offer!
October 17, 2024
This is a fairly extensive selection of Verlaine's work, translated accessibly by Norman Shapiro, which is no small feet given the density of 19th French symbolist poetry. It is not an extremely literal translation, it is a poetic translation aiming not as scholarly by "artistic" accuracy.
December 28, 2016
I can't read French, but for some reason (yes, shoot me now) I feel like Shapiro's translation doesn't capture the melodious ferocity of Verlaine's verse as well as it should. Or maybe I need to pick me up some French.
October 28, 2012
"Pe solitaru-mi suflet cade plictiseala.
Sar zice ca launtric port un macel dement.
O, sa nu poti, in doruri fiind atit de lent!
O, sa nu vrei sa-ti mai dispara amorteala!"
Sar zice ca launtric port un macel dement.
O, sa nu poti, in doruri fiind atit de lent!
O, sa nu vrei sa-ti mai dispara amorteala!"
April 17, 2024
His earlier poems especially are phenomenal. His later poems, as Shapiro admits, are a tad preachy and whiny. Overall, a fantastic output of poetry from one of the foremost French poets.
April 15, 2025
Some I liked, most didn't do much for me. It's hard to tell if the translation's the issue. Some things that didn't seem to work on the English page seemed to work better in the adjacent French original, though I'm no expert.
Some lines I liked:
"Amid, the smoke-like, quivering haze, the field
Drops off to sleep;..."
"Happiness once walked side by side with me;
But DOOM knows no reprieve, ..."
"Ours, that soul lamenting, weeping
In that plaintive murmur, sleeping;
Ours it is, no? spirit twain—
Yours, mine— gentle soughed and sighed
Low, this balmy eventide,
In a humble, soft refrain."
"Bronze the sky, with no
Glimmering of light:
Is the moon to grow
Dim, and die tonight?"
"What do you want, mischievous Melody,
Sweet, muted strain? What would you do with me,
You, who will soon be dying, over by
The window open on the greenery?"
"Here, take these boughs, leaves, fruits and flowers. And take
This heart that beats for you alone. Take care
Lest, taking, with those soft, white hands, you break
This humble gift I pray your eyes find fair."
"Take vain Eloquence and wring its neck!
Best you keep your Rhyme sober and sound,
Lest it wander, reinless and unbound—
How far? Who can say?—if not in check!
...
Music first and foremost, and forever!
Let your verse be what goes soaring, sighing,
Set free, fleeing from the soul gone flying
Off to other skies and loves, wherever.
Let your verse be aimless chance, delighting
In good-omened fortune, sprinkled over
Dawn’s wind, bristling scents of mint, thyme, clover . . .
All the rest is nothing more than writing."
"No, it's not as if you've not made up
With the one who vexed you: unconcerned,
I forgive my childhood, now returned,
Face still pert, though rather much made up."
"Speak, Swords! Let your commands give birth, in us,
To life, at blade-points blooming, if need be."
Some lines I liked:
"Amid, the smoke-like, quivering haze, the field
Drops off to sleep;..."
"Happiness once walked side by side with me;
But DOOM knows no reprieve, ..."
"Ours, that soul lamenting, weeping
In that plaintive murmur, sleeping;
Ours it is, no? spirit twain—
Yours, mine— gentle soughed and sighed
Low, this balmy eventide,
In a humble, soft refrain."
"Bronze the sky, with no
Glimmering of light:
Is the moon to grow
Dim, and die tonight?"
"What do you want, mischievous Melody,
Sweet, muted strain? What would you do with me,
You, who will soon be dying, over by
The window open on the greenery?"
"Here, take these boughs, leaves, fruits and flowers. And take
This heart that beats for you alone. Take care
Lest, taking, with those soft, white hands, you break
This humble gift I pray your eyes find fair."
"Take vain Eloquence and wring its neck!
Best you keep your Rhyme sober and sound,
Lest it wander, reinless and unbound—
How far? Who can say?—if not in check!
...
Music first and foremost, and forever!
Let your verse be what goes soaring, sighing,
Set free, fleeing from the soul gone flying
Off to other skies and loves, wherever.
Let your verse be aimless chance, delighting
In good-omened fortune, sprinkled over
Dawn’s wind, bristling scents of mint, thyme, clover . . .
All the rest is nothing more than writing."
"No, it's not as if you've not made up
With the one who vexed you: unconcerned,
I forgive my childhood, now returned,
Face still pert, though rather much made up."
"Speak, Swords! Let your commands give birth, in us,
To life, at blade-points blooming, if need be."
August 12, 2019
I was kind of disappointed in this one — what I wanted was a more literal kind of translation so as to be able to simply read the original French text and fill in any gaps in my comprehension by referring to a literal English translation. Instead, the translations are quite interpretative and thus, in my opinion, greatly transformative — which in itself isn't bad at all, but simply not what I had been looking for. Still, I was able to work around this hurdle and enjoy Verlaine in quite an accessible and interesting manner.
July 18, 2020
Not my favorite.
August 20, 2025
This is a lovely book with excellent contextualization (by the translator, Norman R. Shapiro) of the poems collected.
Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews