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Sitting, at
the casement's blue the spinster
Where the song-filled garden nods;
The ancient snoring wheel has made her tipsy.
Weary, azure having drunken, of spinning the tender
Hairs, at her fingers so feeble evasive,
She slumbers, and her little head droops.
A bush and pure air make a living fountain
That hung in daylight, deliciously waters
With a waste of flowers the garden of the idler.
A stem, where the wandering wind reposes,
Curves the vain salute of its starry grace,
Magnificently dedicating, to the old wheel, its rose.
But the sleeper spins an isolate wool;
Mysteriously the frail shadow plaits
The thread unto of her long fingers sleeping, spun.
The dream winds up with a carelessness
Angelical, and ceaseless, on the sweet believing spindle,
The hairs undulate under the caresses...
Behind so many flowers, the azure hides,
Spinster of foliage and light girded:
The green sky entire dies. The last tree burns.
Your sister, the great rose where smiles a saint,
Perfumes your vague brow in the wind of her breath
Innocent, and you think you languish... you are extinguished
At the casement's blue where you spun the wool.
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