From Stéphane Mallarmé
I.HÉRODIADE
Herodiade.To mine own self I am a wilderness.You know it, amethyst gardens numberlessEnfolded in the flaming, subtle deep,Strange gold, that through the red earth's heavy sleepHas cherished ancient brightness like a dream,Stones whence mine eyes, pure jewels, have their gleamOf icy and melodious radiance, you,Metals, which into my young tresses drewA fatal splendour and their manifold grace!Thou, woman, born into these evil daysDisastrous to the cavern sibylline,Who speakest, prophesying not of one divine,But of a mortal, if from that close sheath,My robes, rustle the wild enchanted breathIn the white quiver of my nakedness,In the warm air of summer, O prophetess,
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