Poem
by Anna de Noailles (1876-1933)

“Without loving you, I still love your voice,

Without tearing me apart, your look touches me.

My heart is more alive when I behold you,

I dream of the flaws of your beautiful mouth.”

 

 

“My books, I wrote them for you, young men,

          And I left therein

Like children biting into apples

          The mark of my teeth.”

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