SHE climbed the mountain;
And, naked,
Vaunting her body which he had refused,
She said:
Cloud, stay! O cloud, behold!
And thou, blue gentian flowering at my feet,
You budding larches, bindweeds, you anemones,
You dying snows less lovely than my flesh
Virgin of kisses still, not of desires,
Behold! Behold!
Is not my body worth the love I asked?

Spring breezes mounted from the plain.
Breezes, she said, why will you turn aside?
You pass, I am alone; and I am white:
Winds drunk with pollen, seeds, and hot embraces
Winds bitter with the scent of bodies joined,
Come, take my burning flesh in your moist breathing;
I loved his poor love, more I love your mighty arms ...
Less my regret is than the bliss you give!

translated by Jethro Bithell