[Verlaine describes Rimbaud in London]
His Eyes, His Hair,
the Seasons in London
The overarching springtime blue in May
Was set with bluebell darker tints in flecks.
Those irises were perfect in the way
A nearly purple paragon respects
The imperfection of the rest. His hair
Was summertime in arching blast
Up from that head, except in portions where
It sloped in darkly like an autumn past.
All these were sacred shrines. All were taboo.
To touch them, kiss them, lave each one with tongue
Was sacrilege and always, ever new,
A worship, traumatizing hearts, as stung
By angels sent to Lot. The only white
Was in his eyes. They held a winter blight.