Artemis

The Thirteenth has come again . . . But is still the first,
And is always the only one-at the one moment.
But art thou, oh my Queen, the first or the last?
Art thou, King, the sole or the final lover?

Love her who loves you from the cradle to the grave;
She whom alone I love, loves me most tenderly:
Death she is, or the dead. . . Oh delight, oh torment!
The rose that she holds is the Mallow, the one in many.

Holy Neapolitan with your hands full of fire,
Rose with a violet heart, Saint Gudule's flower;
Have you discovered your cross in the desert of sky?

Wither, white roses, fall; you insult our gods!
Fall, white phantoms, out of your burning sky;
-The saint of the abyss is more saintly to my eye!