June 09, 2010 6:41pm Apollo, who mourned at Hyacinthe's demise,
Refused to concede this victory to Death.
Much better that the soul, adept in transformation,
Had to find a holy alchemy for beauty.
Thus with his celestial hand he drained and crushed
The subtlest harvest of the garden goddess,
The broken bodies of the herbs yielding a golden essence
From which we measure out our first drop -- of Absinthe!
In lowly hovels and in glittering courts,
Alone, in pairs, drink up this potion of desire!
For it is sorcery -- as one might say --
When the pale opal wine ends all misery,
Opens beauty's most intimate sanctuary -
- Bewitches my heart, and exalts my soul in ecstasy!
