AFTER THE RAIN by EDOUARD JOACHIM CORBIERE

I love the little rain
Which dries itself
With a cloth of tattered blue!
I love love and the breeze,
When it just grazes . . .
And not when it shakes you.

-Like an umbrella of arrows,
You get dry,
O great sun! wide open . . .
Soon the green parasol
Wide open!
Of spring-the winter's summer-

Passion is the thunderstorm
That drenches!
But woman is just a spot:
Beauty spot, spot of madness
Or of rain . . .
Spot of storm-or of calm-

In a bright spoke of mud
Fans out her charms
In great array
-Feather and tail-a chick
Who splashes;
A sweet dish for the sun!

-"Anne! or whoever you are, dear . . .
Or not dear,
Who has been had for free . . .
Well . . . Zoe! Nadjejda! Jane!
Look: I'm strolling here
Lined with gold like the skies!

English spoken? -Spanish? . . .
Batignolle? . . .
Lift up the canvas
That covers your wares,
O Marquise
Of Amaegui! . . . Wiggly!

Monkey-name or archangel's name?
Or both at once? . . .
Little name in eight parts?
Name that shouts, or name that sings?
Lover's name? . . .
Or utterly impossible name?

Will you, with a faithful love,
Eternal!
Adore me for this evening? . . .
For your two little boots
Which you're getting muddy
Take my heart and the sidewalk!

Aren't you dona Sabine?
Carbine?
Say: would you like the heaven
Of the Odeon? -extravagant
Voyage! . . .
They take away your cabbage."

At this point is unsheathed
The old line:
-"You are mistaken!" Such emotion!
"Let me alone . . . I'm a respectable woman . . ."
"Not so dumb!"
"-Who do you take me for?" "For me! . . ."

"Wouldn't you take a drink of something
That's sprinkled
With no matter what . . . some
Pearl juice in cups
Of gold? . . . You cut!
But me, Mina, will you take me?"

-"Why not? that goes without saying!" -
"-That smile! . . .
And me, besides! . . .
Hermosa, you seem to me to have a frankness
about your flank!
A pedant would be offended by it!"

-"But my name is Aloise . . ."
"Heloise!
Will you, for the love of art
-Abelard without the title-
Let me
Be a little bit your Abelard?"
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And like a white squall which dies
The sweet dream
Lay down there, without a dark cloud . . .
Gives to my appeased mouth
"The dew
Of a rising-kiss- Good night-"

"It is the song of the lark,
Juliet!
And it's the song of the turkey . . .
I give you, like the dawn
Which gilds you,
A circle of gold on your eiderdown."

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