Without doubt I prefer, in Spring, the outdoor café

Where dwarf chestnuts get their sticks flowered every day,

Near the narrow communal meadow, in the month

Of May. Young dogs many and many a time rebuffed

Draw near The Drinkers to triturate the hyacinth

In the flowerbed. And there’s, unto evenings of jacinth,

Upon the slate table where, in the year 1720,

A deacon had to carve his Latin nickname plenty,

Meager as a prose upon church windowpanes,

The coughing of dark flasks that never dull their brains.

Arthur Rimbaud