Paul Verlaine. (№ 380501)

This street, the city - as in ghostly dream,
It would be, and maybe it was all:
In a vague moment everything is so clearly suddenly stood out -
Is the sun in the misty haze emerged.
It's the voice in the woods is a scream in the ocean.
This is be - cause it is absurd to look for
The awakening, birth again and again.
Everything as it was, only clearer face:
This street, the city of old dreams,
Where are the organ grinders grind dancing melody,
Where twang of a violin in the hands of the ragged,
Where on the racks of pubs purr cats.
It is, like death, is inevitable: and again
Will cheek to drip sweet tears,
Will be crying with laughter, the rumble of wheels,
For new death calls, where each word
As old and dead as a dried flower.
There will be a festive hubbub of the festivities,
Widows, copper pipes, peasant, peasants,
The crowd, diverse urban flow
Whores, followed by youths in the nines dressed up,
And bald old men, and all sorts of rabble.
Will go over the ground a couple of sewage,
And soar carnival will rocket.
It will be just as interrupted sleep,
And again, dreams, visions, mirages,
The scenery is the same, the extravaganza is the same
Summer, greens and the swarm of bees sound.