The lady youth who walks upon the lawn,
In summer trim of apples and of charms,
Where noon eclipses twelve with both its arms,
And stops her lovely steps amidst its brawn,
As tragic, forlorn spouse, one time did tell
To Death, seducing then her poet: "Woe!
"You lie, O vain realm! Jealous am I so
"Of this false Eden sad where he shan't dwell."
'Tis why the deepest flowers of the earth,
Love him with silence, mystery and lore,
While in their hearts the purest pollen sleeps;
And come the breeze, by these delights he keeps
A name for goblets to be drunk in mirth:
"Helène!" his feeble voice will always roar!