O that warm February morning! <br />The untimely south came <br />to stir up our absurd paupers' memories, <br />our young distress. <br /> <br />Henrika had on a brown <br />and white checked cotton skirt <br />which must have been worn in the last century, <br />a bonnet with ribbons and a silk scarf. <br /> <br />It was much sadder than any mourning. <br />We were taking a stroll in the suburbs. <br />The weather was overcast <br />and that wind from the south <br />excited all the evil odors of the desolate <br />garden and the dried fields. <br /> <br />It did not seem to weary my wife as it did me. <br />In a puddle left by the rains of the preceding month, <br />on a fairly high path, <br />she called my attention to some very little fishes. <br /> <br />The city with its smoke and its factory noises <br />followed us far out along the roads. <br />O other world, habituation <br />blessed by sky and shade! <br /> <br />The south brought black miserable memories <br />of my childhood, my summer despairs, <br />the horrible quantity of strength <br />and of knowledge that fate has always kept from me. <br /> <br />No! we will not spend the summer <br />in this avaricious country <br />where we shall never be anything <br />but affianced orphans. <br />I want this hardened arm <br />to stop dragging _a cherished image._<br /><br />Arthur Rimbaud<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/working-people/
