Snow
Fleeting on the scarf, on the glove
Like this illusion, the poppy,
In the hand that dreamed, last summer
On the road among the dry stones,
That the absolute is within reach of the world.

However, what promise
In the delicate touch of this water, for it was,
For an instant, the light! The summer sky
Has hardly any clouds to half open
A brighter way under dark vaults.

Circé
Under her pergola of shadows, the visionary,
Had no redder fruit.