Il pleut doucement sur la ville.—ARTHUR RIMBAUD
Gertrude Hall Brownell translation
It weeps in my heart As it rains on the town. What is this dull smart Possessing my heart? Soft sound of the rain On the ground and the roofs! To a heart in pain, O the song of the rain! It weeps without cause In my heart-sick heart. In her faith, what? no flaws? This grief has no cause. 'Tis sure the worst woe To know not wherefore My heart suffers so Without joy or woe.