Épisode. Episode

EPISODE

ON an evening sublimely favoured by the doves, A maiden is gently combing her hair in the sun. She bestows on the floating waterlilies a toe's Final touch, and to warm her cold wandering hands Sometimes bathes at sunset their transparent roses. Shortly, as if by an innocent shower, her skin Trembles, it is the absurd voice of a reed-pipe, Flute whose perpetrator with teeth of precious gems Calls up a futile wind of shadow and reverie By the hidden kiss he risks under the flowers. But almost indifferent to the ruse of these tears, Or to her deification by any word Of the rose, she combs from her hair a heavy halo; And pulling at her nape a pleasure twisted there, Her delicious fists quicken the cluster of gold From whence light flows down between her limpid fingers! ... A petal dies upon the dampness of her shoulder, A drop descends from the flute into the water, And the pure foot takes fright like a lovely bird Drunken on shadow ...