Apollon, who was weeping for the death of Hyacinthe,
Didn't want to give up the victory for the death.
His soul, adept at soaring,
Had to find for beauty a holier alchemy.
Thus with his celestial hand he drains, he exhausts
The most subtle gifts of the divine Flora.
Their broken bodies sigh a golden exhalation
Of which he was catching for us the drop of Absinthe!
To curled up caves, to sparkling palaces,
By one, by two, drink this lover's beverage !
For this is a spell, a balm's matter,
This pale opal wine aborts misery,
Hems with beauty the intimate sanctuary
Bewitches my heart, makes ecstatic my soul!