This is one of Rimbaud‘s later poems (he stopped creative writing at just 19) and perhaps reflects some sense of revulsion at the decadent and wild life he experienced in the previous few years.
My Translation
Song of the Highest Tower
Idle youth
Slave to all,
By delicate ways
I lost my life.
Ah! That the time comes
For hearts to fall in love.
I told myself: leave,
Do not allow a soul to see you:
And without the promise
Of higher joys.
Let nothing stop,
Your noble retreat.
I have so much patience
That forever I forget;
Fears and suffering
Are parties to the heavens.
And the morbid thirst
Darkens my veins.
Thus the prairie
Of forgotten garb,
Grown and flowered,
Incense and rye
And the savage buzz
Of hundreds of filthy flies.
Ah! Thousands of widows,
Poor souls
Having only the image
Of Our Lady!
Do they pray
To the Virgin Mary?
Idle youth
Slave to all,
By delicate ways
I lost my life.
Ah! That the time comes
For hearts to fall in love.
Original French
Chanson de la plus haute tour
Oisive jeunesse
A tout asservie,
Par délicatesse
J’ai perdu ma vie.
Ah! Que le temps vienne
Où les coeurs s’éprennent.
Je me suis dit: laisse,
Et qu’on ne te voie:
Et sans la promesse
De plus hautes joies.
Que rien ne t’arrête,
Auguste retraite.
J’ai tant fait patience
Qu’à jamais j’oublie;
Craintes et souffrances
Aux cieux sont parties.
Et la soif malsaine
Obscurcit mes veines.
Ainsi la prairie
A l’oubli livrée,
Grandie, et fleurie
D’encens et d’ivraies
Au bourdon farouche
De cent sales mouches.
Ah! Mille veuvages
De la si pauvre âme
Qui n’a que l’image
De la Notre-Dame!
Est-ce que l’on prie
La Vierge Marie?
Oisive jeunesse
A tout asservie,
Par délicatesse
J’ai perdu ma vie.
Ah! Que le temps vienne
Où les coeurs s’éprennent!