Stephane Mallarme. Sea Breeze The flesh is sad, alas, and there’s nothing but words! To take flight, far off! I sense that somewhere the birds Are drunk to be amid strange spray and skies. Nothing, not the old gardens reflected in the eyes, Can now restrain this sea-drenched heart, O night, Nor the lone splendour of my lamp on the white Paper which the void leaves undefiled, Nor the young moth...