Poems by Stéphane Mallarmé

YES, it is for me, for me I bloom, deserted Gardens of amethyst, you know it, deep
...

The flesh is sad, alas! And all the books are read.
Flight, only flight! I feel that birds are...

My soul, calm sister, towards thy brow, whereon scarce grieves
An autumn strewn already with ...

TIRED of the fetid smell that climbs and sticks
In the banal whiteness of the curtains, toward
...