That's all that's left already of our true play,
Where the pure poet's gesture, humble, vast
Must deny the dream, the enemy of his trust:
So that on the of his exalted stay,
When ancient death is for him as for Gautier,
The un-opening of sacred eyes, the being-still,
The solid tomb may rise, ornament this hill,
The sepulchre where lies the power to blight,
And miserly silence and the massive night.
Where the pure poet's gesture, humble, vast
Must deny the dream, the enemy of his trust:
So that on the of his exalted stay,
When ancient death is for him as for Gautier,
The un-opening of sacred eyes, the being-still,
The solid tomb may rise, ornament this hill,
The sepulchre where lies the power to blight,
And miserly silence and the massive night.
Mallarme - Poems
