Princess! to envy the fate of a Hebe
Who appears on this porcelain cup at a kiss
from your lips,
I enjoy my passion but have no rank
other than priest
And I shall scarcely be shown naked on pottery.
As I am not your furry lapdog,
Neither rouge, nor clever games
And I feel your close glance falling on me,
Blonde whose divine coiffeurs are goldsmiths!
Name us.....you whose raspberry laughter
Is joined in a flock of tamed lambs
Grazing on vows and bleating to their
Name us....so that Love with fanlike wings
Combs me, fingering his flute, as I slumber
in the sheepfold,
Princess, name us shepherd of your smiles.
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Comments about this poem (Futile Petition by Stéphane Mallarmé )
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