To the Muse

 In your hidden memories 
There are fatal tidings of doom.
.
.
 
A curse on sacred traditions, 
A desecration of happiness; 

And a power so alluring 
That I am ready to repeat the rumour 
That you have brought angels down from heaven, 
Enticing them with your beauty.
.
.
 

And when you mock at faith,
That pale, greyish-purple halo
Which I once saw before
Suddenly begins to shine above you.
 

Are you evil or good? You are altogether from another world
They say strange things about you
For some you are the Muse and a miracle.

For me you are torment and hell.
 

I do not know why in the hour of dawn,
When no strength was left to me,
I did not perish, but caught sight of your face
And begged you to comfort me.
 

I wanted us to be enemies;
Why then did you make me a present
Of a flowery meadow and of the starry firmament --
The whole curse of your beauty? 

Your fearful caresses were more treacherous
Than the northern night,
More intoxicating than the golden champagne of Aï,
Briefer than a gypsy woman's love.
.
.
 

And there was a fatal pleasure
In trampling on cherished and holy things;
And this passion, bitter as wormwood,
Was a frenzied delight for the heart!

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