THE CROWNS

…A divine illusion?… A profound memory?…
It was a supreme moment at the gates of the world!

Destiny told me marvelously:
—Your temples are two live royal mountings:
Choose a crown, all go to your brow!—
And I saw them spring from the fertile hands,

Blooming and glorious, tragic and brilliant!
Colder than the marmoreal corpse of a statue,
I saw thorns, and flowers, and diamonds rolling,
Like the splendid accessories of an illusory chimera.

Afterwards it was a shining stream of golden stars;
—Take! —it said— they are kisses of miracle, between them
Like two warm lands your temples will bloom!…

…Like dying pupils, they rolled away and were extinguished
I walked into life, sweetly, dreaming
To sink my fertile temples into your pale hands!…