Autumn Song by Paul Verlaine
With long sobs
the violin-throbs
of autumn wound
my heart with languorous
and monotonous
sound.
Choking and pale
when I mind the tale
the hours keep,
my memory strays
down other days
and I weep;
and I let me go
where ill winds blow,
now here, now there,
harried and sped,
even as a dead
leaf, anywhere.
This poem was selected by Nancy R. (Reference Librarian)
