The flesh is sad, alas! and all the books are read. Flight, only flight! I feel that birds are wild to tread The floor of unknown foam, and to attain the skies! Nought, neither ancient gardens mirrored in the eyes, Shall hold this heart that bathes in waters its delight, O nights! nor yet my waking lamp, whose lonely light Shadows the vacant paper, whiteness profits best, Nor the young wife who rocks her baby on her breast. I will depart. O steamer, swaying rope and spar, Lift anchor for exotic lands that lie afar! A weariness, outworn by cruel hopes, still clings To the last farewell handkerchief's last beckonings! And are not these, the masts inviting storms, not these That an awakening wind bends over wrecking seas, Lost, not a sail, a sail, a flowering isle, ere long? But, O my heart, hear thou, hear thou the sailors' song! These (need I say?) belong to the earlier period, in which Mallarmé had not yet withdrawn his light into the cloud; and to the same period belong the prose-poems, one of which, perhaps the most exquisite, I will translate here. AUTUMN LAMENT "Ever since Maria left me, for another star--which? Orion, Altair, or thou, green Venus?--I have always cherished solitude. How many long days I have passed, alone with my cat! By _alone,_ I mean without a material being, and my cat is a mystical companion, a spirit. I may say, then, that I have passed long days alone with my cat, and alone, with one of the last writers of the Roman decadence; for since the white creature is no more, strangely and singularly, I have loved all that may be summed up in the word: fall. Thus, in the year, my favourite season is during those last languid summer days which come just before the autumn; and, in the day, the hour when I take my walk is the hour when the sun lingers before fading, with rays of copper-yellow on the grey walls, and of copper-red on the window-panes. And, just so, the literature from which my soul demands delight must be the poetry dying out of the last moments of Rome, provided, nevertheless, that it breathes nothing of the rejuvenating approach of the Barbarians, and does not stammer the infantile Latin of the first Christian prose.