Have no fear, woman of the naked arms. Stay with me. My lips are filled with kisses. Here, here. I lay them on thy brow, on thy hair. I caress thy hair with its ancient perfume. I caress thy hairs which intertwine like the worms on the bodies of the dead. O death, o death, hairy with worms. I have kisses on my lips. Here, here they are, on thy hands, on thy neck, on thine eyes, thine eyes. I have lips full of kisses, here, here, burning like a fever, sustained to enchant thee, kisses, mad kisses, on the ear, the temple, the cheek. Feel my embraces, bend under the effort of my arm, be languid, be languid. I have kisses upon my lips, here, here, mad ones, upon thine eyes, upon thy neck, upon thy brow, upon thy youth, I longed so to love thee, this spring day when there are no more blossoms on the branches which prepare themselves to bear fruit. TRISTOUSE Leave me, go away. Those who move each other are happy, but I do not love you. You frighten me. However, do not despair, o poet. Listen, this is my best advice: Go away! CRONIAMANTAL Alas! Alas! To leave again, to wander unto the oceanic limits, through the brush, the evergreen, in the scum, in the mud, the dust, across the forests, the prairies, the plantations, and the very happy gardens. TRISTOUSE Go away. Go away, far from the antique perfume of my hair, o thou who belongest to me. And Croniamantal went off without turning his head once; he could be seen for a long time through the branches, and then his voice could be heard growing fainter and fainter as he disappeared from view. CRONIAMANTAL Traveller without a stick, pilgrim without staff and poet without a writing pad, I am more powerless than all other men, I own nothing more and I know nothing... And his voice no longer reached Tristouse Ballerinette who was admiring her image in the pool. In another age monks cultivated the forest of Malverne. MONKS The sun declines slowly, and blessing thee, O Lord; we are going to sleep in the monastery so that the dawn may find us in the forest. THE FOREST OF MALVERNE Every day, every day, flights of anguished birds see their nests crushed and their eggs broken when the trees sway with shaking branches. THE BIRDS It is the happy hour of twilight when the girls and boys come to roll on the grass. And all of them have kisses that want to fall like over-ripe fruit or like the egg when it is about to be laid. Do you see them there, do you see them dance, muse, haunt, chant from dusk to the dawn, his pale sister? A RED-HAIRED MONK (_In the middle of the Cortège_) I am afraid to live and I should like to die. Convulsions of earth. Labor! O lost time... THE BIRDS _Gay! Gay! the broken eggs The ready-made omelette cooked on a downy fire Here! Here! Take to the right_ _Turn to the left Straight ahead Behind the fallen oak There and everywhere._ CRONIAMANTAL (_In another age, near the Forest of Malverne and a little before the passage of the monks._)