Last Hope
Beside a humble stone, a tree
Floats in the cemetery’s air,
Not planted in memoriam there,
But growing wild, uncultured, free.
A bird comes perching there to sing,
Winter and summer, proffering
Its faithful song—sad, bittersweet.
That tree, that bird are you and I:
You, memory; absence, me, that tide
And time record. Ah, by your side
To live again, undying! Aye,
To live again! But ma petite,
Now nothingness, cold, owns my flesh. . .
Will your love keep my memory fresh?
Copyright Credit: Paul Verlaine, "Last Hope" from One Hundred and One Poems by Paul Verlaine: A Bilingual Edition, translated by Norman R. Shapiro. Copyright © 1999 by Norman R. Shapiro. Reprinted by permission of The University of Chicago Press.
Source: One Hundred and One Poems by Paul Verlaine: A Bilingual Edition (The University of Chicago Press, 1999)