I. <br />It is a repose in the light, <br />neither fever nor languor, <br />on a bed or on a meadow. <br />It is the friend neither violent nor weak. <br />The friend. <br />It is the beloved neither <br />tormenting nor tormented. <br />The beloved. <br />Air and the world not sought. <br />Life. --Was it really this? <br />--And the dream grew cold. <br /> <br />II. <br />The lighting comes round <br />to the crown post again. <br />From the two extremities of the room <br />-- decorations negligible <br />-- harmonic elevations join. <br /> <br />The wall opposite the watcher <br />is a psychological succession <br />of atmospheric sections of friezes, <br />bands, and geological accidents. <br /> <br />Intense quick dream <br />of sentimental groups <br />with people of all possible characters <br />amidst all possible appearances. <br /> <br />III. <br />The lamps and the rugs <br />of the vigil make the noise <br />of waves in the night, <br />along the hull and around the steerage. <br /> <br />The sea of the vigil, like Emily's breasts. <br />The hangings, halfway up, <br />undergrowth of emerald tinted lace, <br />where dart the vigil doves. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . <br /> <br />The plaque of the black hearth, <br />real suns of seashores! ah! magic wells; <br />only sight of dawn, this time.<br /><br />Arthur Rimbaud<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/vigils/
