 | Along the trail |  |
SUMMER SADNESS
(From the French of Mallarmé)
The sunlight on the sands, fair struggler fallen asleep,
Makes warm a bath of languors in your golden hair,
And, burning away the angry incense that you weep,
Mingles a wanton drink of longings in the air.
Makes warm a bath of languors in your golden hair,
And, burning away the angry incense that you weep,
Mingles a wanton drink of longings in the air.
Immutable in calm, the white flamboyant day
Has made you sigh (alas, my kisses full of qualms!)
“No, we shall never be one mummy, swathed for aye
Under the ancient desert and the happy palms.”
Has made you sigh (alas, my kisses full of qualms!)
“No, we shall never be one mummy, swathed for aye
Under the ancient desert and the happy palms.”
40
This incubus of soul we suffer, in the river
Of your warm hair might plunge and drown without a shiver,
And find that Nothingness that you know nothing of.
And I would taste those tears of rouge beneath your eyes,
To see if they can give the heart you smote with love
The insensibility of stones and summer skies.
Of your warm hair might plunge and drown without a shiver,
And find that Nothingness that you know nothing of.
And I would taste those tears of rouge beneath your eyes,
To see if they can give the heart you smote with love
The insensibility of stones and summer skies.
1895
| Along the trail | |