Dawn

I kissed the dawn of summer.

Nothing stirred before the palace. Water was motionless. Shadow claimed the woodland road. I walked, lively and with warm breath, noticing precious stones along the way; and wings rose without a sound.

First, I encountered a form full of freshness and light--a flower who told me her name.

I laughed at the bright waterfall pounding trees into disarray: at the silver summit, I perceived the goddess.

I lifted her veils, one by one. My arms trembled with delight. But across the plain, I denounced her to the cock. In the city, she fled among steeples and domes, and I chased after like a beggar on the banks of marble.

On a little road near the forest, I bound her with gathered veils, and gathered my courage to touch her colossal body. At once, both dawn and child fell down at the woodpile.

On waking, I found that it was noon.

Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)