Parisian Sketch, Poem by Paul Verlaine

The moon was plastering its zinc-like hues
At obtuse angles.
Wisps of smoke in the shape of fives
Came thick and black from the high pointed roofs.

The sky was gray. The north wind wept
Like a bassoon.
In the distance, a chilly and discreet tomcat
Was meowing in a strange and thin way.

I, I walked, dreaming of divine Plato
And of Phidias,
And of Salamis and of Marathon,
Under the blinking eye of the blue gas lamps.

Paul Verlaine

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