Morning, Poem by Charles Cros

Poem by Charles Cros Collection The Sandalwood CasketPeriod 19th century

Here is the blue morning. My fair and golden love,
Weary of loving, under my kisses has fallen asleep.
Here is the blue morning coming over the pillow
To put out the orange glimmers of the hearth.

The carefree one sleeps. Fatigue has silenced
The crystal babble, the panther sighs,
The ravenous kisses and the pearled laughter.
And the capricious gold of her unrolled hair
Makes a rippling frame for the tilting head.
Naked and proud of its contours, the white throat
Where, on the two summits, the vermilion blood blooms,
Rises and falls to the rhythm of sleep.

The dress, a nest of silk, lies collapsed on the floor.
Yesterday, beneath the whites of crumpled batiste,
The form sprang from it free, a white butterfly
Emerging from its cocoon, wing stuck to its side.

Beside it, on their high heels, are the little boots
That give the small feet those saucy airs,
And the stockings, made of crossed gossamer threads,
That draw rosy shimmerings over the skin.

Scattered in every corner of the silent room
I see again the debris of the proud toilette
She wore, when she arrived yesterday
Still steeped in the scents of winter.

Charles Cros

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