Episode

An evening that is favored with doves which are sublime,

The maiden gently combs in the sunlight her hair.

To the waterlilies she gives a toe just there

The last, and to warm her chilly hands the minx

Dips at times in sundown their transparent pinks.

Betimes. if with an innocent rainshower, her skin

Quivers, it’s a reedpipe’s absurd butting-in,

Flute whose guilty party with teeth of jewelry

Draws a futile wind of shade and reverie

Through the occult kiss he risks beneath the flowers.

But near indifferent to the feints of these eyeshowers,

Nor deifying herself with the slightest parole

Of rose, she combs out a weighty aureole,

And drawing from her nape a pleasure writhing bold,

Her delicious fists press the tuft of gold

The light of which runs down between her fingers limpid,

...A leaf dies upon her shoulders that are humid,

A droplet falls from the flute on the water unstirred,

And the pure foot takes fright like a lovely bird

Drunken with shade...

Paul Valéry