 | Along the trail |  |
41
SONNET
(From the French of Mallarmé)
Balmy with years, what silken ply,
Whereo'er the fancy pines and pales,
Is worth the tangled native veils
That in your mirror I descry?
Whereo'er the fancy pines and pales,
Is worth the tangled native veils
That in your mirror I descry?
Uplifted in the avenue,
The tattered banners droop and dream;
For me your naked tresses stream,
To drown my eyes in, glad of you.
The tattered banners droop and dream;
For me your naked tresses stream,
To drown my eyes in, glad of you.
No, never will the lips be sure
Of any taste in aught they take
Unless your princely lover make,
Amid that clustered cynosure,
Die, as a diamond might die,
The Glories and their smothered cry.
Of any taste in aught they take
Unless your princely lover make,
Amid that clustered cynosure,
Die, as a diamond might die,
The Glories and their smothered cry.
1895
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