Billy Oblivion said:
I spent a long and boring train journey yesterday reading Rimbaud. Very overrated in my opinion; although if I could read more of the original French it might appeal to me more. The subject matter on the whole seemed quite juvenile (admittedly he was 16 - 19 when he was writing) and I think I he made a good decision when he renounced literature in favour of gun-running and the slave trade.
My good friend Mr. Burns posted this elsewhere. He tends to find the really good translations of Rimbaud.
Maybe this will help you reassess his work.
Irene Wilde
aube
I embraced the summer dawn.
nothing yet stirred on the face of the palaces. the water is dead. the
shadows still camped in the woodland road. I walked, waking quick warm
breaths; and gems looked on, and wings rose without a sound.
the first venture was, in a path already filled with fresh, pale gleams,
a flower who told me her name.
I laughed at the blond waterfall that tousled through the pines: on the
silver summit I recognized the goddess.
then, one by one, I lifted up her veils. in the lane, waving my arms.
across the plain, where I notified the cock. in the city, she fled among
the steeples and the domes; and running like a beggar on the marble
quays, I chased her.
above the road near a laurel wood, I wrapped her up in gathered veils,
and I felt a little her immense body. dawn and the child fell down at the
edge of the wood.
waking, it was noon.
--arthur rimbaud