Rimbaud: On His Muse

OLD birches, full of autumn, sound —
like rain, their few excited leaves,
while stained and versatile, the ground
enhances sense which time deceives.

Among the trees she comes and leaves
with words, too deep for sense to hold,
of dissolution as it weaves
through learning where the mind is old.

The calm she looks for in my figure,
restraint or death itself conceives;
through my long dream I trusted neither:
blind will alone confronts the leaves.

My skill was stronger than the leaves,
and yet it falls away as fast;
she frowns and waits and disbelieves
that madness found me out at last.

Beside her now my shadow heaves,
like meaning seen but never formed,
hugely alert among the leaves,
where worse than madness is performed.