The guide was quoting Verlaine to me: br in one gesture of easy fine feeling br he swept his hand over Paris, br under the rustle of the thin rain. br The verses are irrecoverable, br they ripple like water lit by stars. br ‘The sound of it, sir, is beautiful.’ br I nod, I say the sound is beautiful. br Paris forgets. Verlaine in vellum br standing as if by the decree of God br stiff on the book-shelf of the bourgeoisie. br How beautiful it is with gin and lime br in prospect of a good night of sleep, br that short, discreet reading aloud. br Proper to do some honour to Verlaine. br And beautiful? br Beautiful. br But this br as I remember not as you remember br belongs to you and I return you it. br Verlaine afflicted you. I do not know you. br That misfit of your false pieties br inflamed with alcohol-wrong, you remarked. br Am I too hasty? You distort your faces. br Beautiful? br It murdered him by inches. br He was assassinated. Jeers hit at him br from the street-corners. Your kind of br morality consumed him to ashes. br Oh tight drum-bellies drinking to Verlaine! br -these poet-murderers are poet-quoters.