La fileuse. The girl who spins

ALBUM DE VERSANCIENS

THE GIRLWHO SPINS

The lilies..., neither do they spin.

SEATED, the young girl spins at the blue of the window Where all the melodious garden seems to doze; The ancient spinning-wheel hums its intoxication.

Weary, having drunk from the azure, of spinning The tender thread, with fingers feebly relaxing, She dreams, and her slender head of itself inclines.

A scrub and the pure air create a living source Which, suspended by the day, deliciously water With their loss of flowers the garden of idleness.

One lone stem, where the wandering wind has rested, Bows down in vain greeting to her glimmering grace, Disdained splendidly, by the old spinning-wheel, her rose.

But the sleeping girl spins the wool in isolation; Mysteriously the frail shadow weaves of itself With thread from those slim fingers which are sleeping, yet spin.

The dream itself thus unwinds with an idleness Angelic, and ceaseless, on soft credulous spindle, The undulating thread at the whim of the caress...

Behind so many flowers, the azure hides itself, Weaver of foliage and of encircling light: All the green sky is dying. The final tree still burns.

Your sister, the great rose wherein there smiles a saint, Perfumes your abstracted brow with the innocent wind Of her breath, and believes you languish... You are faded

At the blue of the window where you spin the wool.