Your perch is the branch
and your boudoir the branch also.
The branch, the rough branch!
evergreen boughs closing you about
like ironed curtains
to complete the decor.

The sun pours in
as the roughing wind blows
and who will conceive the luxury,
the rare lightness of
your fluttering toilette like him,
he who is lost and alone in the world?

Princess of the airy kingdoms
the sky is your wardrobe
and yellow roses
the frilled chrysanthemums bending
to the late season your park.

Among the clouds your couriers
post to embassies
beyond our fondest dreams
and heaven, the ancient court of saints
whispers to us
among the hemlocks
insistently of you.


 = Leon Branton