BUVEUSE D'ABSINTHE

Her voice was fleet-limbed and immaculate,

And like peach blossoms blown across the wind

Her white words made the hour seem cool and kind,

Hung with soft dawns that danced a shadow fete.

A silken silence crept up from the South,

The flutes were hushed that mimed the orange moon,

And down the willow stream my sighs were strewn,

While I knelt to the corners of her mouth.

Lead me afar from clamorous dissonance,

For I am sick of empty trumpetings,

Choking the highways with a dusty noise.

Here I have found her sweet sheer utterance,

And now I seek the garden of the wings

Where I may bathe in sounds that life destroys.