O lullaby, with your daughter, and the innocence
Of your cold feet, greet a new being:
A voice where harpsichords and viols linger,
Will you press that breast, with your withered finger,
From which Woman flows in Sibylline whiteness to
Those lips starved by the air's virgin blue?
Of your cold feet, greet a new being:
A voice where harpsichords and viols linger,
Will you press that breast, with your withered finger,
From which Woman flows in Sibylline whiteness to
Those lips starved by the air's virgin blue?
Mallarme - Poems
