Marie

You danced this folk dance as a child,
You'll dance it as a spry old girl
And all the bells will ring out wild,
The maclotte, that makes you skip and whirl.
But when will you come back, Marie?

The masques have all gone silent
And the music is so far away
It seems to come from the sky.
Yes, I want to love you but to love you shyly,
The hurt of it like a luxury.

The sheep have gone into the snow,
Tufts of wool among tufts of silver;
Soldiers go by; why can't I know
A heart of my own? It will change forever,
And then what do I know anyhow?

Do I know where your hair will go,
Those frizzles like fleece of the sea?
Do I know where your hair will go
Or your hands like leaves of an autumn tree,
Scattering our covenant so?

I walked the banks of the Seine
With an old book under my arm;
It is like my grief, that river,
It flows like a ceaseless rain.
Will this week never be over?

Guillaume Apollinaire

The Three Sisters, 1916
Henri Matisse

The Two Sisters, 1843
Theodore Chasseriau

Tilly Losch, 1928
E. O. Hoppé

Giovanna Bellelli, 1856
Edgar Degas