I speak in those words suddenly That rise once in the soul. So sharply comes The musty odour of an old sachet, A bee hums on a white chrysanthemum. And the room , where light strikes through slits, Cherishes love, for here it is still new. A bed, with a french inscription over it, Reading : ‘ Seigneur , ayez pitié de nous. ‘Of such a lived-through legend the sad strokes You must not touch, my soul, nor seek to do… of Sèvres statuettes the brilliant cloaks I see are darkening and wearing through. Yellow and heavy, one last ray has poured Into a fresh bouquet of dahlias And hardened there. And I hear viols play And of a clavecin the rare accord. .
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