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Stéphane Mallarmé

(1842-1898 / France)

What Silk…


What silk of time’s sweet balm
Where the Chimera tired himself
Is worth the coils and natural cloud
You tend before the mirror’s calm?

The blanks of meditating flags
Stand high along our avenue:
But I’ve your naked tresses too
For burying my contented eyes.

No! The mouth cannot be sure
Of tasting anything in its bite
Unless your princely lover cares

In that mighty brush of hair
To breathe out, like a diamond,
The cry of Glory stifled there.

Submitted: Friday, April 02, 2010

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