The Green Hour

Poem by Charles Cros Collection The Sandalwood CasketPeriod 19th centuryPrint

As if cradled in a hammock,
Thought sways and whirls,
At this hour when every stomach
Drowns in a flood of absinthe.

And absinthe permeates the air,
For this hour is all emerald.
Appetite sharpens the scent
Of more than one pink nose that prowls.

Casting the knowing gaze
Of her great aquamarine eyes,
Circe seeks where the wind comes from
That caresses her nostrils.

And, toward unknown dinners,
She runs through the opal
Of the evening mist. Venus
Lights up in the pale-green sky.

Charles Cros

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