1 minute read
La ceinture. The Belt
THE BELT
WHEN the sunset glow of a cheek Departs at last from cherished eyes And a vanishing point of gold From the roses with which time plays,
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Before the muteness of delight To which just such a picture binds, Dances the Shadow of a belt Which the evening almost grasps.
This belt so restlessly moving Produced with ethereal breath Sets the supreme link trembling That my silence has with this world...
Absent, present... I am alone, And sombre, o suave winding-sheet.
