Gracious son of Pan! Around your forehead
crowned with flowerets
and with laurel, restlessly roll
those precious balls, your eyes.

Spotted with brown lees, your cheeks are hollow.
Your fangs gleam. Your breast is like a lyre,
tinklings circulate through your pale arms.
Your heart beats in that belly where sleeps the double sex.
Walk through the night, gently moving that thigh,
that second thigh, and that left leg.

by Arthur Rimbaud

Other poems of RIMBAUD (124)

Comments (3)

R. S. Thomas: Thee Poet ' In the thin hands, that asked for bread'. Thrived musical phrase that says, “What is a human That lies(lays) till end What thee began. Will end.”
I think he is referring to himself and 'everypoet'. He's aware that people expect answers from poets that they are unable to offer. Thomas was an understated man. I'm not sure if disillusioned is the right word, but he existed in the same postcode. Bleak, jaded or realistic? I enjoy a few of his poems very much.
Can anyone tell me which 'Poet' this poem refers to?