To Kill, Poem by Charles Cros

Here comes the vague springtime
I want to be beautiful. A ring
Draws your kiss to my hand.

Love me well! Love all of me
Above all never, never doubt.
Your fury? I will calm it.

I did wrong. – But do not be sad,
Bury me under the batiste.
I am dying! cushions, cushions!

Now I will be very good
Your arms around my bodice
And your lips between my breasts.

Charles Cros

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