Children of the Night

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Author: Edwin Robinson

Verlaine

Why do you dig like long-clawed scavengers
To touch the covered corpse of him that fled
The uplands for the fens, and rioted
Like a sick satyr with doom’s worshippers?
Come! let the grass grow there; and leave his verse
To tell the story of the life he led.
Let the man go: let the dead flesh be dead,
And let the worms be its biographers.

Song sloughs away the sin to find redress
In art’s complete remembrance: nothing clings
For long but laurel to the stricken brow
That felt the Muse’s finger; nothing less
Than hell’s fulfilment of the end of things
Can blot the star that shines on Paris now.

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Chicago: Edwin Robinson, "Verlaine," Children of the Night, ed. Keil, Heinrich, 1822-1894 and trans. Seaton, R. C. in Children of the Night (New York: George E. Wood, 1850), Original Sources, accessed August 8, 2022, http://www.originalsources.com/Document.aspx?DocID=4LK266UDBRGD9QZ.

MLA: Robinson, Edwin. "Verlaine." Children of the Night, edited by Keil, Heinrich, 1822-1894, and translated by Seaton, R. C., in Children of the Night, New York, George E. Wood, 1850, Original Sources. 8 Aug. 2022. http://www.originalsources.com/Document.aspx?DocID=4LK266UDBRGD9QZ.

Harvard: Robinson, E, 'Verlaine' in Children of the Night, ed. and trans. . cited in 1850, Children of the Night, George E. Wood, New York. Original Sources, retrieved 8 August 2022, from http://www.originalsources.com/Document.aspx?DocID=4LK266UDBRGD9QZ.