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Verlaine
#1
Verlaine

Why do you dig like long-clawed scavengers
To touch the covered corpse of him that fled
The uplands for the fens, and rioted
Like a sick satyr with doom’s worshippers?

Come! let the grass grow there: and leave his verse
To tell the story of the life he led.
Let the man go: let the dead flesh be dead,
And let the worms be its biographers.

Song sloughs away the sin to find redress
In art’s complete remembrance: nothing clings
For long but laurel to the stricken brow

That felt the Muse’s finger: nothing less
Than hell’s fulfillment of the end of things
Can blot the star that shines on Paris now.
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