I want to perpetuate these nymphs.
So clear,
Their light rose color, that it floats into the air
Heavy with the sleep of the woods.
Did I love a dream?
My doubt, accretion of ageing night, ends
On their brances, which, reamining the real
Woods prove, alas, that alone I offered to
myself
As a triumph the ideal fault of roses.
Let me reflect . . .
or whether the women
whom you explain
Figure a desire of your fabulous senses!
Faun, the illusion escapes from the blue cold
Eyes, like a spring weeping, of the more
chaste girl:
But, the other one all sighs, would you say
that she contrasts
Like the warm breath of day in your fleece?
But no! in the motionless and tired faint
Suffocating with heat, the cool morning, if it
struggles,
Does not murmur with any water which my
flute doesn't pour
Over the wood sprinkled with chords; and
only the wind
Out of the two pipes to exhale before
Dispersing the sound in an arid rain,
It is, on the horizon, not disturbed by a line,
The visible and serene artificial breath
Of inspiration returning to the sky.
O Sicilian edges of a calm swamp
Which to the envy of suns my vanity
destroys,
Tacit under flowers of sparks, TELL
"That here I cut empty reeds conquered
By talent; when, on the green gold of distant
Verdure dedicating its vines to fountains,
Floats an animal whiteness at rest:
And that at the slow prelude where the pipes
are born
That flight of swans, no! of nymphs escapes
Or plunges . . . "
Inert, everything burns in the dark hour
Without showing with what art together
scampered off
Too much marriage desired by him who looks
for A:
Then I shall awake to the first fervor
Upright and alone, in an ancient flood of light,
Lillies! and one of you for ingenuousness.
Other than that soft nothing scarcely sounded
by their lips,
The kiss, which low assures perfidiousness,
My chest, virginal of proof, shows a
mysterious
Bite, due to some august tooth;
But enough! Such a secret chose for
confident
The vast and twin reed we play on under the
sky:
Which reed, turning back to oneself the
emotion of the cheek,
Dreams, in a long solo, that we amused
The beauty of this place by false
Confusion between itself and our credulous
song;
And [dreams] of performing so high that love
will modulate for itself
-- As vanishing from the ordinary dreams of a
back
Or a pure flank followed by my closed eyes, --
A sonorous vain and monotonous line.
Try then, instrument of flights, O cunning
Flute, to reflower at the lake where you await
me!
I, proud of my noise, am going to speak at
length
Of goddesses; and by idolatrous paintings,
Continue to remove belts from their shadows:
Thus, when i have sucked the light from the
grapes,
To banish a regret dispelled by my pretence,
Laughing, I raise to the summer sky the
empty bunch
And blowing into their luminous skins, avid
With drunkenness, until evening I look
through them.
O nymphs, let us inflate diverse memories.
"My eye, piercing the reeds, looked at each
immortal
Neck, which dips in the water its burning
With a cry of rage toward the forest's sky;
And the splendid bath of hair disappears
In the myriad lights and shimmerings, O
precious stones!
I hasten; when, at my feet, are embraced
(bruised
With the languor coming from the pain of
being two)
The sleeping girls amid their relaxed arms;
I seize them, without separating them, and fly
To that mound, hated by the frivolous shade,
Of Roses drying all perfume in the sun,
Where our struggle is similar to the consumed
day."
I worship you, anger of virgins, O terrified
Delight of the sacred nude burden which
escapes
To avoid my burning lips, like a flash
Trembles! the secret terror of the flesh:
From the feet of the inhuman one to the heart
of the timid
Whom an innocence abandons at the same
time, humid
With mad tears or with less sad humors.
"My crime, was to have, happy at calming
those treacherous
Fears, divided the loosened hair
Of kisses which the gods so well combined:
For, scarcely had I hidden my passionate
laughter
Under the happy folds of one of them
(holding
With a single finger, so that her feather
whiteness
Should be tinted at the emotion of her sister
growing excited,
The smaller one, naive and not blushing:
When from my arms, relaxed by vague deaths,
That prey, for every ungrateful, liberates itself
Without pity for the sob with which I was still
drunk."
I don't care! toward happiness others will lead
me
By their tresses entwined about the horns of
my brow.
You know, my passion, that, red and ripe
already,
Each pomegranate bursts and murmurs with
bees;
And our blood, in love with whom is going to
seize it,
Flows for the eternal swarm of desire.
At the moment when the wood is tinted with
gold and ashes
A celebration resounds in the extinguished
foliage:
Etna! it is on you visited by Venus
On your lava placing her innocent feet,
When a sad sleep thunders or the flame itself
dies.
I hold the queen!
O sure punishment . . .
No, but my soul
Empty of words and my heavy body
Succumb late to the proud silence of noon:
Without more I must sleep in forgetting the
blasphemy,
Lying on the thirsty sand and how I love
To open my mouth to the potent star of
wines!
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I would perpetuate these nymphs.
So clear,
their light carnation, that it drifts on the air
drowsy with tufted slumbers.
So I loved a dream?
My doubt, a mass of ancient night, concludes
in many a subtle branch, which, since the real
woods
remain, proves, alas, what I offered to myself
as triumph was the ideal lack of roses.
Let's think it over . . .
if those girls you explain
be but an itching in your fabulous brain!
Faun, the illusion escapes from the blue eyes
and cold of the more chaste, like a weeping
spring:
but thte other one, all sighs, you say,
contrasts
like a day-breeze warm upon your fleece!
But no! through the immobile and heavy
swoon
stifling with heat the cool morning if it resists,
murmurs no water but that poured from my
flute
on the grove sprinkled with harmonies; the
only wind
prompt to exhale from the twin-pipes before
it can disperse the sound in an arid rain,
is, on the horizon unstirred by a wrinkle,
the visible and serene artificial breath
of inspiration, which regains the sky.
O Sicilian borders of a peaceful marsh
which like unto the sun my vanity plunders,
tacit under the flowers of sparks, RELATE
"How I was cutting here the hollow reeds
tamed by my talent; when, on the glaucous
gold
of distant verdures dedicating their vines
to the fountains, undulated an animal
whiteness,
reposing: and to the slow prelude whence the
pipes
are born, this flight of swans, no! of Naides
goes scampering off or dives . . . "
Inert, all things
burn in the tawny hour, not noticing
by what art together fled this too much hymen
desired by who seeks of la: then I'll awaken
to the primal fervor, erect and alone,
under the antique flood of light, O lilies!
and the one among you all for artlessness.
Besides this sweet nothing by their lips made
known,
the kiss, that reveals, though hushed, some
faithless ones,
my breast, virgin of proof, vouches a bite,
mysterious, from some illustrious tooth;
but enough! as confidant such arcanum chose
the great twin-reeds one plays beneath the
azure:
which, diverting to themselves the cheeks'
excitement,
dream, in a long solo, that we may amuse
the beauties hereabout by false confusions
between them even and our credulous song;
and to make as high as love can modulate
vanish from the banal dream of backs
or pure flanks pursued in my closed eyes,
a sonorous and vain, monotonous line.
Try them, instrument of flights, O evil
Syrinx, to flower again by the lakes where you
wait!
Proud of my noise, I am going to talk at length
of the goddesses; and by idolatrous paintings
to lift again the cinctures from their shadows:
so, when I have sucked the bright juice of the
grapes,
to banish a regret by my pretense discarded,
laughing, I raise to the summer sky the empty
hulls and, puffing into these luminous skins,
craving drunkenness, I gaze through them till
evening.
O nymphs, we swell with divers MEMORIES.
"Piercing the reeds, my eyes speared each
immortal
neck, that drowns its burning in the water
with a cry of rage flung to the forest sky;
and the splendid bath of tresses disappeared
in shimmerings and shiverings, O jewels!
I rush up; when, at my feet, entwine (bruised
by the languour drunk from this harm of
being two)
girls sleeping in each other's perilous arms;
I seize them, not untangling them, and run
to this clump, hated by the frivolous shade,
of roses exhausting all their scent in the sun,
where our frolic should be like a squandered
day."
I adore you, anger of virgins, O fierce delight
of the sacred naked burden that slips to flee
the fiery drinking of my lips, like the crack
of lightning! the secret terror of the flesh:
from the feet of the heartless one to the heart
of the timid
abandoned at the same time by an innocence,
humid
with foolish tears or less melancholy vapors.
"My crime is, gay at vanquishing their
traitress-
fears, to have parted the disheveled tangle
of kisses that the gods kept so well mingled;
for I was just going to hide a glowing laugh
in the happy creases of one (even while I kept
with only a finger--so that her plume's
candor
should be stained by the frenzy of her sister
who burned--the little one, naive, not
blushing a bit:)
when from my arms, relaxed by the vague
death,
this prey, forever ungrateful, frees itself,
not pitying the sob that still bedrunkened
me."
Too bad! but others will lead me toward
happiness,
knotting the horns on my brow with many a
tress;
you know, my passion, how crimson and
already ripe,
every pomegranate bursts and murmurs with
bees;
and our blood, burning for who is going to
receive it,
flows for all the eternal swarm of desire.
At the hour when this wood is stained with
gold and ashes
a feast exults among extinguished leaves:
Etna! it is on you visited by Venus
upon your lava setting her candid feet
when thunders a sad slumber or the flame
expires.
I embrace the queen!
Sure punishment . . .
No, but the spirit
empty of words now and the body numbed
unto noon's haughty silence at last succumb:
enough! on the thirsty sand, forgetful of
the outrage, I must sleep, and as I love
open my mouth to the powerful star of wine!
Sweet pair, farewell. I shall see the shades you
become.
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I would perpetuate these nymphs.
So clear,
The glow of them, so nimble in the air
Drowsiness encumbers --
Did I dream that love?
My doubt, the hoard of ancient night, divides
In subtle branches, which, the only woods
Remaining, prove, alas! that all alone
I triumphed in the ideal fault of roses.
Reflect . . .
or if the women you malign
Configurate your fabled senses' wish!
That error flees before the chaste nymph's
eyes,
As blue and cold, Faun, as a weeping stream.
But, for the other, would she not compare,
All sighs, to day's warm breezes in your
fleece?
No! through this immobile lassitude
That stifles any protest from cool morning,
No water murmurs but the harmony
My flute pours on the grove; the only wind,
Quick to exhale from the two pipes, before
It dissipates the sound in arid rain,
Is, on the smooth horizon nothing moves,
The visible, serene, and artificial breath
Of inspiration, homing to the sky.
O you Sicilian shores of a calm marsh,
Which, rivaling suns, my vanity lays waste,
Silent beneath the flowers of light, RELATE
"I was cutting here the hollow reeds by talent
Mastered; against the distant glaucous gold
Of foliage offering its vines to streams,
Undulates animal whiteness in repose;
And, when the pipes are born in slow prelude,
A flight of swans, no! naiads hastens off
Or dives . . . "
Inert, all burns in the tawny hour
With no sign of the wiles by which escaped
That nuptial surfeit the musician sought.
Then to my native fervor I'll awake,
Upright, alone in ancient floods of light,
Lilies! and by my innocence you peer.
Save this sweet nothing rumored by their lips,
The kiss, mute witness to their perfidy,
Untouched by any proof, my chest reveals
Mysterious marks of sacramental teeth:
Enough! if such arcana deign to speak,
It is through vast twin reeds played under
heaven,
Which, turning to themselves the cheek's
emotion,
In an endless solo, dream that we amused
The beauty here around us, foolishly
Equating it with our own credulous song;
And of abstracting from the banal vision,
Contours of back or breast traced by closed
eyes,
As high as love itself can modulate,
A sonorous, futile, uninflected line.
Try then, malicious Syrinx, instrument
Of flight, to flower anew beside our lakes!
As for me, proud of my voice, I'll speak at
length
Of those divinities and by idolatrous
Depictions strip yet more veils from their
shade.
Thus, when I've sucked the brightness out of
grapes,
To chase regret deflected by my feint,
I lift the empty cluster to the sky,
Laughing, and, wild to be drunk, inflate
The shining skins and look through them till
night.
O nymphs, let us inflate our MEMORIES.
"Piercing the reeds, my gaze stabs deathless
Throats, which drown their burning in the
wave
With cries of outrage to the forest sky;
The splendid shower of tresses disappears
In a shimmering of precious gems! I lunge;
And there, entangled at my feet (cast down
By languour in the pain of being two)
Lie sleeping nymphs, at risk in their embrace;
I carry them off, still intertwined, and fly
To that high garden frivolous shadow scorns,
Where roses yield their fragrance to the sun
And, like the day, our sport may be
consumed."
I love you, wrath of virgins, savage bliss --
The sacred naked burden as it writhes
To flee the fiery lightning of my lips,
While, from the cruel one's feet to the shy
one's heart,
I drink the secret terror of the flesh;
And innocence, all moist with frenzied tears
Or with less woeful vapors, quits them both.
"Gay with the conquest of those treacherous
fears,
I sinned when I divided that disheveled
Bouquet of kisses mingled by the gods;
For, as I moved to hide an ardent laugh
Deep amid joyous curves (and only held
By one sole finger, that her sister's kindling
Might lend its color to her downy whiteness,
The little one, unblushing and naive)
Then, from my arms, undone as if by death,
This prey, ungrateful to the end, breaks free,
Spurning the sob that kept me drunken still."
Who cares! their tresses knotted on my horns,
Others will draw me on toward happiness.
You know, my passion, that, crimson now and
ripe,
Pomegranates burst in a hum of bees:
Our blood, enamored of its tyrant, flows
For the eternal swarming of desire.
When these woodlands take the hues of ash
and gold,
Rejoicing quickens in the darkened leaves:
Etna! in your midst, where Venus comes,
Touching your lava with ingenuous feet,
When thunders sorry sleep or the flame burns
dry.
I hold the queen!
Sure punishment . . .
No, the soul
Empty of words and this now torpid flesh
To noon's proud silence all too late succumb.
I must forget that blasphemy in sleep,
Laid out on thirsty sand, mouth open wide --
Oh, delight! -- to wine's effectual star.
Couple, farewell; I'll see the shade that you
became.
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