Fan of Madam Mallarmé’s

With nought else as for languages

Save a flapping unto heaven

The future verse disengages

From its very precious den

Wing far down the courier

This fan if it is the one

The same by which behind you there

Some or other mirror has shone

Limpid (where again will fall

Still pursued in every grain

A bit of ash invisible

Alone to cause me any pain)

Ever so let it appear

In your hands not idle here

Stéphane Mallarmé