REMY DE GOURMONT
309
Which make the hips of women. I desire that one may divine beneath the shadow of the skin the point of the trochanters and the fragile little baton of the clavicles, for the skin rolls round the muscles.
And the muscles rest upon the bones like a solid red ivy. The bones are the rock whose flesh is the moss.
I love, O my statue, your immortal body.
Whisper; timid exhalation;
Philomela's trill;
And the silver trepidation
Of the sleepy rill.
Twilight; shades upon the meadow;
Ghosts' unending dance;
And the melting light and shadow
In her tender glance.
Tints of purple roses peeping;
Harmonies are drawn;
One caress . . . and teardrops creeping;
And the dawn . . . . the dawn!
