Stéphane Mallarmé Poems

Nothing! this foam and virgin verse
to designate nought but the cup;
such, far off, there plunges a troop
Of many Sirens upside down.
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To introduce myself to your story
It’s as the frightened hero
If he touched with naked toe
A blade of territory
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The sun, on the sand, O sleeping wrestler,
Warms a languid bath in the gold of your hair,
Melting the incense on your hostile features,
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To the sole concern in voyaging
Beyond an India dark and splendid
– Let it be time’s message, this greeting
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Eyes, lakes of my simple passion to be reborn
Other than as the actor who gestures with his hand
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My books closed again at Paphos’ name,
It delights me to choose with solitary genius
A ruin, by foam-flecks in thousands blessed
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The virginal, living and lovely day
Will it fracture for us with a drunken wing-blow
This solid lost lake whose frost’s haunted below
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La lune s'attristait. Des séraphins en pleurs
Rêvant, l'archet aux doigts, dans le calme des fleurs
Vaporeuses, tiraient de mourantes violes
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Hyperbole! From my memory
Triumphantly can’t you
Rise today, like sorcery
From an iron-bound book or two:
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I

Any solitude
Without a swan or quai
Mirrors its disuse
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