Note, Poem by François De Malherbe

Not the gusts apropos
Of nothing like occupying the street
Subject to the black flight of hats;
But a dancer appeared

Whirlwind of muslin or
Fury scattered in foam
That lifts with her knee
The very one from whom we lived

For everything, except him, reheated
Witty, drunk, motionless
To strike down with the tutu,
Without otherwise getting worked up

If not laughing that the air may
From her skirt fan Whistler.

François de Malherbe

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