When you shall sleep, my faithless one, under A monument built all of gloomy marble, And when for room and mansion you shall have Only a false hollow, a rainy cave; When the stone your timid chest oppressing, And your flanks that nonchalance makes supple, Shall keep your heart from beating and wishing, Your feet from running their adventurous course, The tomb, confidant of my infinite dream (The tomb that always understands the poet), Through the long nights when sleep is banished, Will say to you: "Of what use, courtesan, Not to have known what the dead were weeping?" -And the worm will gnaw your flesh like a remorse. |