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And from that time on I bathed in the Poem Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk, Devouring the green azures where, entranced in pallid flotsam, A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down.

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
Sometimes
Milk
Pallid
Men
Poem
Flotsam
Time
Star
Infused
Sea
Bathed
Green
Azure
Goes
Devouring
Stars
Drowned
Churned
Dream
Dreaming
Entranced

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I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.
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I wrote silences nights I recorded the unnameable.
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Faith assuages, guides, restores.
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In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.
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No one's serious at seventeen.
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Idle youth, enslaved to everything by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.
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Here I am on the shore of Brittany. Let the cities light up in the evening. My day is done. I am leaving Europe. The sea air will burn my lungs. Lost climates will tan me. I will swim, trample the grass, hung, and smoke especially. I will drink alcohol as strong as boiling metal--just as my dear ancestors did around their fires.
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Love...no such thing. Whatever it is that binds families and married couples together, that's not love. That's stupidity or selfishness or fear. Love doesn't exist. Self interest exists, attachment based on personal gain exists, complacency exists. But not love. Love has to be reinvented, that’s certain.
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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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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.
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Eternity is the sun mixed with the sea
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The northern lights rise like a kiss to the sea
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And I am still alive-what though, my damnation is eternal. A man who deliberately mutilates himself is truly damned, is he not? I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am.
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Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!
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Come from forever, and you will go everywhere.
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What am I doing here?
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I shed more tears than God could ever have required.
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I'm intact, and I don't give a damn.
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-But I've just noticed that my mind is asleep.
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