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I wait, but do not know for what or why
Or perhaps you are uttering the last bruised sighs,
Ignorant of the mystery and of your cries,
Of a childhood feeling its frozen gems
Being broken off at last amidst its dreams.

— Stéphane Mallarmé Hérodiade (1898)

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More quotes by Stéphane Mallarmé

The flesh is sorrowful, alas! And I've read all the books.

It is in front of the paper that the artist creates himself.

If only I'd chosen an easy work!

The work of pure poetry implies the elocutionary disappearance of the poet, who yields the initiative to words.

The poetic act consists in suddenly seeing that an idea splits into a number of motives of equal value and in grouping them; they rhyme.

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Quote text and notes from Wikiquote: Stéphane Mallarmé (page history), available under CC BY-SA 4.0. Source quality and labels are our own summary of what Wikiquote records.