Tuesday, June 10, 2014


Four miscarried brothers had Verlaine
Who dwelt, each in his own jar, in a cupboard.
"Had I but had the fortune to be born,"
Sighed the eldest, "I'd have written poems
That would have made strong men run mad
And go barking through the streets of
There was a crack in the second jar; through it
The second one's soul would slip out at night
And haunt the dreams of respectable women.
Loathe would I be to lie to you, Reader;
I have no idea what the third son did though ever
Was there something unchancy about his eyes.
Nor would I willingly betray the secrets
Which the fourth son, in his despair,
Told me all the length of a winter's night.

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