She has woven it three little tunics and we gave it jewels on the day of the Aphrodisian Festival; jewels and flowers also. She watches over its virtue, and will not let it go out without her; not in the sun, above all, for the little doll would melt into drops of wax. LXI TENDERNESSES Sweetly close thine arms, like a girdle about me. O touch, touch my skin thus! Neither water nor the breeze of noon-tide are so soft as thy hand. Today, endear me, little sister, it is thy turn. Remember thou the tendernesses which I taught thee in the night past, and kneel thou silently near me, for I am wearied. Thy lips descend upon my lips. All thine unbound hair follows them like a caress after a kiss. It glides over my left breast, it hides thine eyes from me. Give me thy hand, it is hot! Press mine; hold it always. Hands better than the mouths unite, and their passion is equalled by nothing. LXII GAMES More than her balls or her doll, I am for her a game. With all parts of my body, she amuses herself like a child, through the long hours, without speaking. She loosens my hair and reforms it according to her caprice, knotting it under my chin like a thick cloth, or twisting it upon the nape of my neck, or braiding it to the end. She regards with astonishment the color of my lashes, the folds of my neck. Sometimes she makes me kneel and place my hands upon the bed: Then (it is one of her games) she slips her little head underneath and imitates the trembling kid which sucks from the belly of its mother. LXIII PENUMBRA Under the cover of transparent wool, we slipped, she and I. Even our heads were covered, and the lamp shone through the cloth above us. Thus I saw her dear body in a mysterious light. We were very near, one to the other, more free, more intimate, more naked. “In the same shift,” she said. We had left our hair bound up in order to be still more uncovered, and in the close air of the bed, the odors of two women ascended, of two natural cassolets. Nothing in the world, not even the lamp, saw us that night. Which of us was loved, she alone, and I, could say. But the men know nothing of it. LXIV THE SLEEPER She sleeps in her unbound hair, her hands joined behind her neck. Does she dream? Her mouth is open; she breathes gently. With a bit of white swan, I dry off the perspiration of her arms, the fever of her cheeks, but without awakening her. Her closed eyelids are two blue flowers. Very softly, I will raise myself; I will go · to draw water, to milk the cow and ask fire of the neighbors. I would arrange my hair and dress before she opens her eyes.