Malines

Nigh the fields, the wind picks fights

With weathervanes, fine detail

Of some alderman his castle,

Red as brick and blue as slate,

Nigh the bright and endless fields...

Like the groves of fairyland

Of ash trees, foliation fond,

A thousand horizons echelon

This Sahara of meadowlands,

Clover, alfalfa and pale lawns.

The railway cars spin past in silence

Amid these places all quiescent.

Go to sleep, cows! Take your rest,

Gentle bulls of the plain immense,

Beneath your skies scarce iridescent!

The train glides by without a murmur,

Each railway car is a salon

Where one talks low and where one

Enjoys at one’s ease all this nature

Made just right for Fénelon.

Paul Verlaine