A drink with Rimbaud

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On fine summer evenings, I shall walk along paths,
Prickled by wheat-stalks, trampling the fine grass,
Dreaming, and feeling its coolness on my feet.
I shall let the wind rush through my hair.

I shall not speak, I shall not think,
But endless love will rise up in my soul,
And I shall go far, far away like a gipsy,
Through the countryside – happy as with a woman.

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