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Francis Jammes Poems
It Is Going To Snow
It is going to snow in a few days. I remember This time last year. My heart, O how it bled! Had I been asked: 'What ails thee?' I should have said: 'Nothing. Leave me alone. It is December.'
The Cricket's Song
Last night the cricket sang when all was still. I cannot tell you what he sang about. His singing made the darkness thicker still. The sad flame of my candle lengthened out.
The Forest Paths
The forest paths are muddy, after the rain; The meadows are soaked through and through again. The blackbirds in the yellow osiers sing, The yellow osiers good for basketing.
You Come When the Sun Sinks Low
You come when the sun sinks low, accompanied by the hum of bees. You come laughing with your red mouth fierce, like the flowers of pomegranates.
Prayer To Go To Paradise With the Asses
O God, when You send for me, let it be Upon some festal day of dusty roads. I wish, as I did ever here-below By any road that pleases me, to go
The Dead Child
A small house with a dog in front ... O my love! Tonight, this rose is wet. In the big park, by the rusty gate, I walk with you in a timeless dream.
Do Not Console Me
Do not console me. I should not have heard. If dreams, which were the only wealth I wist, Leave my dark threshold whereon squats the mist, I shall be ready, and shall speak no word.
I Love ...
I Love in old days Clara d'Ellébeuse, The school-girl of old boarding-schools, Who, on warm evenings, sat beneath the limes, Reading the magazines of olden times.
Lass, when they talk of love, laugh in their face. They find not love who seek it far and wide. Man is a cold, hard brute. Your timid grace Will leave his coarse desires unsatisfied.
The Old Village
The old village was with roses filled, And I went wandering in the heat of the day, And, after, o'er the sleeping leaves that chilled The feet that walked among them where they lay.
Madame de Warens
Mademe De Warens, you would watch the storm Folding the dark trees of your sad Charmettes, Or else you played the spinet, in a fret, You clever woman whom Jean-Jacques would scold.
The brooms glow in the desolate moors; on the ochre hills, the heather sings: But you cannot heal my sad heart or ease The memory of my poor dead child.
There Are Days in June
There are days in June that seem to be December. Thus sometimes the substance of this room or more accurately the people in it who pray silently start up in the midst of happiness and alter, bewitched by a murmur from the calm foliage.
With Feet at the Fire
With feet at the fire, I am thinking of those birds Which told Columbus that the land was nigh. Water, water, water far as the sky. At last a sailor shouted out these words:
Comments about Francis Jammes
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
It Is Going To Snow
It is going to snow in a few days. I remember
This time last year. My heart, O how it bled!
Had I been asked: 'What ails thee?' I should have said:
'Nothing. Leave me alone. It is December.'
O those bad thoughts! I had no good of them,
This time last year when heavy snow was cloaking
The world outside. And now as then I am smoking
A pipe of briar-wood with an amber stem.
And still my old oak chest of drawers smells good.
But I was foolish, for these things can never
Be changed, and they do only pose as clever
Who drives away the things bred in their ...