The Soul Indrawn
Stephane Mallarme
(tr. Roger Fry)
All the soul indrawn
When slowly we exhale it
In many rounds of smoke
Lost in other rounds
Proves that some cigar
Burns skilfully how-so little
Its ash withdraws itself
From the clear kiss of fire
So the choir of songs
Flies it to your lip
Exclude if you begin
The real as being base
Its too sharp sense will overscrawl
Your vague literature
New Directions
1951
