By Lamplight

Just now, S and his dog, Cassie. 

Now you can understand the term "lapdog"

The Rosy Hearth, The Lamplight's Narrow Beam


The rosy hearth, the lamplight's narrow beam,
The meditation that is rather dream,
With looks that lose themselves in cherished looks;
The hour of steaming tea and banished books;
The sweetness of the evening at an end,
The dear fatigue, and right to rest attained,
And worshipped expectation of the night,--
Oh, all these things, in unrelenting flight,
My dream pursues through all the vain delays,
Impatient of the weeks, mad at the days!

Paul Verlaine

(translator not credited on the web page where I found this; 

I think it is from Verlaine's Romances Sans Paroles.)

Poor Paul! Ever since I read that book about Rimbaud, I imagine Verlaine's despair over that whole exciting mess with the talented boy. I understand that Verlaine's poetry shows an excellent command of the French language, classically used. This translation is in a regular form, which I am assuming represents the plan of the original. How I wish I had paid more attention to Miss Isabel Zimpel in French classes in 1951 and 1952! Can you read French poetry in the original?