from

Lucien Ltinois

You were not in my arms when you died,

Though it seemed you were, for your pain
And your boundless distress were both shared.
Delirious, paler than linen,
You held me instead with your voice,
Saying sweet wild thingsI was dead,
It was sadand you gripped tight my hand
As you stared into infinite space.
I turned, trembling, to cover my tears,
While you in your fever continued
To talk and to call out my name:
Then grief beyond grief, it was over.
I ought to have died in your place
As you stood there waving goodbye
And now there is no more to say,
But pardon, just God, my audacity.
Paul Verlaine

France (1844-1896)
translated by Mark Beech