Ah well, towards happiness others will lead me With their tresses knotted to the horns of my brow: You know, my passion, that purple and just ripe, The pomegranates burst and murmur with bees; And our blood, aflame for her who will take it, Flows for all the eternal swarm of desire.
It isn't ideas I'm short of..I've got too many (Degas on discussing poetry with Mallarme,who replied)'Degas,you can't make a poem with ideas-you make it with words.
No more, I must sleep, forgetting the outrage, On the thirsty sand lying, and as I delight Open my mouth to wine's potent star! Adieu, both! I shall see the shade you became.
How, save through obscure Terrors, imagine more implacable still And as a suppliant the god who some day will Receive the gift of your grace! and for whom, Devoured by anguish, do you keep the unknown Splendor and mystery of your being?
My breast, though proofless, still attests a bite Mysterious, due to some august tooth; But enough! for confidant such mystery chose The great double reed which one plays 'neath the blue.