Yesterday, while in my basement study, my son (he's one) pulled from the shelf and brought over to me, with an eager look in his eye, a collection of poems by Mallarmé. I opened it and read to him,
M'introduire...
To bring myself into your tale
is as a hero much afraid
if he has touched with naked heel
any grass-plot of that glade
Ravisher of glaciers I
know no artless sin that after
hindering you'll not deny
its very loud victorious laughter
And am I not joyous, say,
thunder and rubies to the naves
to see in the air pierced by fire
among realms scattered and afar
as in a crimson death the wheel
of my chariots' only vesperal.
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