On the blue summer evenings,
I shall go down the paths,
Getting pricked by the corn,
crushing the short grass:
In a dream I shall feel its coolness on my feet.
I shall let the wind bathe my bare head.
I shall not speak,
I shall think about nothing:
But endless love will mount in my soul;
And I shall travel far, very far, like a gipsy,
Through the countryside - as happy as if I were with a woman.
Arthur RimbaudMarch 1870.