(For your dead wife, her friend) <br />2 November, 1877 <br /> <br />- 'On the forgotten woods when sombre winter passes <br />You complain, lonely threshold's prisoner, <br />That this double sepulchre which is to be our pride <br />Alone with the lack of great posies is loaded. <br />Without hearing Midnight cast its vain number, <br />A vigil exalts you to continue awake <br />Until in the arms of the old armchair <br />The last fireglow has illumined my Shade. <br />He who would oft have the Visitor should not <br />By too many flowers charge the tomb that my finger <br />Lifts with the lassitude of a force defunct. <br />Soul trembling at the so clear hearth to be seated, <br />To live again it suffices that I borrow from your lips <br />The breath of my name murmured the evening long.'<br /><br />Stéphane Mallarmé<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-61/
