Cæsar

Cæsar, most calm Cæsar, foot on everything,

Hard fists in your beard, and dark eye populated

By eagles and by combats of sundown contemplated,

Your heart swells, and feels almighty cause of being.

The lake in vain’s aquiver, and licks at your pink bedding;

In vain with precious gold gleams the young wheat bladed;

You hardened in the knots of your body collated

Order, which must at last be your shut mouth’s opening.

The ample world, far beyond the horizon grand,

The Empire awaits the lightning, the decree, the brand

That will change the evening into sunup’s riot.

Happy there on the waters, swayed back and forth at hazard,

An indolent floating and singing fisherman, knows not

What lightning piles up at the center of Cæsar.

Paul Valéry