Let’s weep till the dawn, my little firebrand! Make me those promises you’ll break by and by, Put your brow to my brow, your hand on my hand, Let her trumpet away, she’s far too bold! Needs the quiet forgetfulness of a sister.īe languid: make your caresses sleep-bringers,Īh, the jealous embrace, the obsessive spasm,Īren’t worth a deep kiss, even one that lies!īut you say to me, child: in your dear heart of gold With sweetness, with sweetness, with sweetness!Ĭalm this feverish rapture a little, my charmer.Įven at its height, you see, sometimes, a lover ‘ For the wars of love a field of feathers’ Who now and then kisses your brow like a child. Sweet, pensive, dark, and always astonished, Sad and desperate, chilled as are the old, Then, in the scent of the dear body’s meshĪnd all that innocence! Ah, backwards yet,įrom black winter fled, to the Springtime of regret,įrom my disgust, my boredom, my distress. Hair’s gold, eyes’ blue, the flower of the flesh, Étienne Hippolyte Maindron (France, 1801-1884)Īh! Fond speech! And the first mistresses! Note: Veleda (Velleda), a German priestess or divinity, celebrated by Maindron’s 1843/44 marble sculpture, much copied as a garden ornament, as were the popular statues of Flora. – Weathered, among bland scents of mignonette. I knew every lark there, coming and going.Īt the end of the avenue its plaster flaking, The tall proud lilies rocked in the wind. The roses as then still trembled, and as then The fountain as ever in its silvery pattern,Īnd the old aspen with its eternal murmur. With wild vines and chairs made of rattan… Of a first ‘yes’ let slip from lips that we love! – Ah! The first flowers, what a fragrance they have! I gave her my answer, a smile so discreet,
Her voice, with its angel’s tone, fresh, vibrant, sweet. ‘Your loveliest day?’ in her voice of fine gold,
On the yellowing woods where the north winds hum. Makes the thrush fly through colourless air, Memory, memory, what do you want of me? Autumn Rhyme that’s assonant, the friend who’s prudent! Yet down with the nice, and the ordinary! To music’s strains, where fragrances entice,Ĭalmer these days and yet no less ardent,Īnd yet not yield to too great an extent. My desire conjured, where the gold roofs soar, This work may be freely reproduced, stored and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose. Kline © Copyright 2002, 2009, 2010 All Rights Reserved
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