“The long sobs of
The violins
Of autumn
Lay waste my heart
With monotones
Of boredom.”
Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon cœur
D'une langueur
Monotone.
"Chanson d'automne", line 1, from Poèmes saturniens (1866); Sorrell p. 24
Original
Les sanglots longs Des violons De l'automne Blessent mon cœur D'une langueur Monotone.
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Paul Verlaine 11
French poet 1844–1896Related quotes
“My heart sobbed a lament that was hard to ignore.”
Source: Even Vampires Get the Blues

Wie schön ist das Leben! Musik und Tanz! Die Geigen schluchzen. Der erste Sektpfropfen knallt. Und nun ein tolles Singen und Schreien. Man singt und schreit mit. Umarmung, Freundschaft, ewige Freundschaft! Welch' schöne Frauen! In schwarz und rot! Und doch bist Du die Schönste, Hertha Holk! … Heda, ihr Miesmacher, der Teufel soll euch holen! Musik und Tanz. Die Geigen schluchzen. Frauen in schwarz und rot. Und doch bist Du die Schönste, Hertha Holk!
Michael: a German fate in diary notes (1926)

“Boredom is the feeling that everything is a waste of time; serenity, that nothing is.”
"Emotions", p. 36.
The Second Sin (1973)

“Tis not for Spring to think on all
The sear and waste of Autumn's fall:”
Canto I
The Troubadour (1825)

“I cannot endure to waste anything so precious as autumnal sunshine by staying in the house.”
1842
Source: Notebooks, The American Notebooks (1835 - 1853)

Prelude
Middlemarch (1871)
Context: Some have felt that these blundering lives are due to the inconvenient indefiniteness with which the Supreme Power has fashioned the natures of women: if there were one level of feminine incompetence as strict as the ability to count three and no more, the social lot of women might be treated with scientific certitude. Meanwhile the indefiniteness remains, and the limits of variation are really much wider than any one would imagine from the sameness of women's coiffure and the favorite love-stories in prose and verse. Here and there a cygnet is reared uneasily among the ducklings in the brown pond, and never finds the living stream in fellowship with its own oary-footed kind. Here and there is born a Saint Theresa, foundress of nothing, whose loving heart-beats and sobs after an unattained goodness tremble off and are dispersed among hindrances, instead of centring in some long-recognizable deed.

“Get the bow going!
Let it scream to me:
Violin! Violin! Violin!”
Song lyrics, Never for Ever (1980)