Biography of Stéphane Mallarmé
Stéphane Mallarmé Poems
The flesh is sad, Alas! and I have read all the books. Let’s go! Far off. Let’s go! I sense that the birds, intoxicated, fly deep into unknown spume and sky!
L’apres-Midi D’un Faune
These nymphs, I would perpetuate them. So bright Their crimson flesh that hovers there, light
Her pure nails sprung up exalting their onyx, Anxiety, this midnight, bearing light, sustains, In twilight many dreams burnt up by the Phoenix
All at once, as if in play, Mademoiselle, she who moots a wish to hear how it sounds today the wood of my several flutes
I don’t come to conquer your flesh tonight, O beast In whom are the sins of the race, nor to stir In your foul tresses a mournful tempest
All Summarised The Soul…
All summarised, the soul, When slowly we breathe it out In several rings of smoke By other rings wiped out
One (Translated In English)
Child sprung from the two of us — showing us our ideal, the way — ours! father
Dear dreamer, help me to take off Into my pathless, pure delight, By always holding in your glove My wing, a thin pretence of flight.
Towards your brow my soul oh gentle sister, where there dreams An autumn strewn with ruddy streaks And towards the wandering sky of your
The Tomb Of Edgar Allan Poe
Such as at last eternity transforms into Himself, The Poet rouses with two-edged naked sword, His century terrified at having ignored
Nothing! this foam and virgin verse to designate nought but the cup; such, far off, there plunges a troop Of many Sirens upside down.
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,
La lune s'attristait. Des séraphins en pleurs Rêvant, l'archet aux doigts, dans le calme des fleurs Vaporeuses, tiraient de mourantes violes
To The Sole Concern
To the sole concern in voyaging Beyond an India dark and splendid – Let it be time’s message, this greeting
The flesh is sad, Alas! and I have read all the books.
Let’s go! Far off. Let’s go! I sense
that the birds, intoxicated, fly
deep into unknown spume and sky!
Nothing – not even old gardens mirrored by eyes –
can restrain this heart that drenches itself in the sea,
O nights, or the abandoned light of my lamp,
on the void of paper, that whiteness defends,
no, not even the young woman feeding her child.