Romance
I
You aren’t serious, when you’re seventeen
One lovely evening, you tire of beer and lemonade,
And of the cafes with their lustrous lamps,
Under the green lime trees of the promenade, you walk
The trees’ scent was lovely on the fine nights of June!
The air felt so soft, you close your eyes;
The wind carries sounds, the city’s not far off
Carrying the scents of vines and the smell of beer
II
Here you see a very small rag
Of a somber blue, resting on a small branch
Pierced by an unlucky star, fleeting away
With soft little shivers, small and very white
June night ! Seventeen! You allow yourself to get drunk
The sap is of champagne and goes to your head..
You’re drifting, and feel a kiss on the lips
And palpates there like something small and alive
III
Your heart is akin to Robinson (Crusoe) traversing romances
When, in the clarity of a pale streetlight
You pass a girl with charming little airs
Under the shadow of her father’s terrifying stiff collar
And because you take her as immensely naive
Toddles along with her little ankle boots,
She turns, alert and with quick movement
And cavatinas slips away in your lips
IV
You’re in love. At least until August (reserved until August)
You’re in love. Your sonnets make her laugh
Your friends are nowhere, you’re not in trend
Then your adored one, one evening, condescends to write to you!
That evening, you return to the gay cafes
You order beer or the lemonade
You aren’t serious when you’re seventeen
And there are green lime trees on the promenade
- Arthur Rimbaud, 1870
