Oh strong-rid­ged and dee­ply hol­lo­wed
nose of mine ! what will you not be smel­ling ?
What tact­less asses we are, you and I, boney nose,
always indis­cri­mi­nate, always una­sha­med,
and now it is the sou­ring flo­wers of the bedrag­gled
poplars : a fes­te­ring pulp on the wet earth
beneath them. With what deep thirst
we qui­cken our desires
to that rank odor of a pas­sing spring­time !
Can you not be decent ? Can you not reserve your ardors
for some­thing less unlo­ve­ly ? What girl will care
for us, do you think, if we conti­nue in these ways ?
Must you taste eve­ry­thing ? Must you know eve­ry­thing ?
Must you have a part in eve­ry­thing ?