Au bois dormant. The Sleeping Beauty

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

THE princess, in a palace as pure as roses, Beneath the murmurs, beneath the moving shadow sleeps, And in coral sketches out an obscure language When the wandering birds peck at her golden rings.

She hears nothing either of the drops, in their falls, Chiming with the treasure of a far off empty age, Nor, from the vague forest, a wind carrying flutes Piercing as the rumour of a phrase on the horn.

Left there, for so long, the echo lulls as it revives, O softness ever equal to the looping vine Which sways above and beats upon your buried eyes.

So close to your cheek and so lingering the rose Does not serve to dissipate the delight of folds Secretly sensitive to the sunbeam settled there.