A La Promenade
The milky sky, the hazy, slender trees,
Seem smiling on the light costumes we wear,-
Our gauzy floating veils that have an air
Of wings, our satins fluttering in the breeze.
And in the marble bowl the ripples gleam,
And through the lindens of the avenue
The sifted golden sun comes to us blue
And dying, like the sunshine of a dream.
Exquisite triflers and deceivers rare,
Tender of heart, but little tied by vows,
Deliciously we dally 'neath the boughs,
And playfully the lovers plague the fair.
Receiving, should they overstep a point,
A buffet from a hand absurdly small,
At which upon a gallant knee they fall
To kiss the little finger's littlest joint.
And as this is a shocking liberty,
A frigid glance rewards the daring swain,-
Not quite o'erbalancing with its disdain
The red mouth's reassuring clemency.
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Comments about this poem (A La Promenade by Paul Verlaine )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1923 - 1998)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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