This bit of foam, this nothing, a verse purely To distinguish the cup we drink, Just as, far away, a group of sirens, many, Their bodies turning and twisting, disappear into the sea. We sail, oh my various Friends, I already on the poop You the sumptuous bow which cuts through The billow of lightnings and of winters; A fine intoxication engages me, Without fear even of the pitching of the ship, To stand and propose this toast: Solitude, reef, star To whatever merits The white solicitude of the cloth of our sail. |