Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-1898 / France)
Nothing! this foam and virgin verse
to designate nought but the cup;
such, far off, there plunges a troop
Of many Sirens upside down.
We are navigating, my diverse
Friends! I already on the poop
You the splendid prow which cuts
The main of thunders and of winters;
A fine ebriety calls me
Without fear of its rolling
To carry, upright, this toast
Solitude, reef, star
To whatever it was that was worth
Our sail's white solicitude.
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