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A thousand Dreams within me softly burn: From time to time my heart is like some oak Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn.

Arthur Rimbaud

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Arthur Rimbaud
Age: 37 †
Born: 1854
Born: October 20
Died: 1891
Died: November 10
Arms Trader
Explorer
Poet
World Traveler
Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
Jean Nicholas Arthur Rimbaud
Heart
Golden
Time
Whose
Oaks
Like
Dreams
Softly
Thousand
Branch
Blood
Torn
Within
Burn
Running
Runs
Dream
Branches

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I understand, and not knowing how to express myself without pagan words, I’d rather remain silent
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Only divine love bestows the keys of knowledge.
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But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
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You feel on your lips a kiss Fluttering, a tiny scrap of life.
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. . . be absolute moderne.
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Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!
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Idle youth, enslaved to everything by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.
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O witches, O misery, O hate, to you has my treasure been entrusted! I contrived to purge my mind of all human hope. On all joy, to strangle it, I pounced with the strength of a wild beast. I called to the plagues to smother me in blood, in sand, misfortune was my God.
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I shed more tears than God could ever have required.
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It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.
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Misfortune was my god.
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O seasons, O castles, What soul is without flaws? All its lore is known to me, Felicity, it enchants us all.
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The northern lights rise like a kiss to the sea
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Eternity is the sun mixed with the sea
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The Poet makes himself a seer through a long, vast and painstaking derangement of all the senses
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