BUVEUSE D'ABSINTHE

Her voice was fleet-limbed and immaculate, And like peach blossoms blown across the wind Her white words made the hour seem cool and kind, Hung with soft dawns that danced a shadow fete. A silken silence crept up from the South, The flutes were hushed that mimed the orange moon, And down the willow stream my sighs were strewn, While I knelt to the corners of her mouth.

Lead me afar from clamorous dissonance, For I am sick of empty trumpetings, Choking the highways with a dusty noise. Here I have found her sweet sheer utterance, And now I seek the garden of the wings Where I may bathe in sounds that life destroys.