Nov 132013
 
Silks involved in balms of Time
Where even fictive if expires
Vaunt not the coiled, the native cloud
Combed in your mirror's lens.

Patriotic ranks of stagnant flags
Exalt above the vacant street;
Drowned by waves of your naked mane,
I plunge to my eyes' content.

Yet, no mouth may be sure
Of the savor his bite procures
Unless, regal and rampant, he insists,

Amidst your immense coppery tufts,
On expelling a diamond sigh:
The cry "Glorie!" that he stifles.

Mallarme

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