The Wolf Cried, Poem by Arthur Rimbaud

The wolf cried under the leaves
Spitting out the beautiful feathers
Of his meal of poultry:
Like him I consume myself.

The lettuces, the fruits
Wait only for the picking;
But the spider of the hedge
Eats only violets.

Let me sleep! let me boil
At the altars of Solomon.
The broth runs over the rust,
And mingles with the Cedron.

Arthur Rimbaud

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