Faun, the illusion flees from the cold, blue eyes Of the chaster nymph like a fountain gushing tears: But the other, all in sighs, you say, compares To a hot wind through the fleece that blows at noon?
Exhaled from my twin pipes and swift to drain The melody in arid drifts of rain, Is the visible, serene and fictive air Of inspiration rising as in prayer
To the slow prelude that the pipes were playing, This flight of swans no! naiads rose in a shower Day burns inert in the tawny hour
Weighed down by the body, wordless, struck dumb, To noon's proud silence must at last succumb: And so, let me sleep, oblivious of sin, Stretched out on the thirsty sand, drinking in The bountiful rays of the wine-growing star!
I'll see the shade that you now are.
L'après-midi d'un faune (or The Afternoon of a Faun) by Stéhane Mallarmé 1876
Devious Comments
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Rintrah roars & shakes his fires in the burdened air;
Hungry clouds swag on the deep.
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Roses are red, Violets are blue, I'm a schizophrenic.........and so am I
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