"Do you know the flower, the fantastic
Waterlily, celebrated in myth?
On a slim, ethereal stem bobs
Its translucent, colorless head;
It blooms by reedy pools in groves,
Protected by the swan, who circles it in solitary vigil;
It opens only in the moonlight
With which it shares its silver glimmer:
Thus does it bloom, the magical sister of the star,
Idolized for its dreamy, dark tendrils
Which by the edge of the pool can be seen from afar,
Never reaching what it yearns for.
Waterlily, so do I call the slim
Maiden with night-dark locks and alabaster cheeks,
With deep foreboding thoughts showing in her eyes 
As if they were ghosts imprisoned on Earth.
When she speaks, it is like the silvery rushing of water;
When she is silent, it is the pregnant silence of the moonlit night.
She seems to have exchanged radiant expressions with the stars,
Whose language, of the same nature, she has grown accustomed to.
You can never grow weary of gazing in those eyes
Fringed with silky, long lashes, 
And you believe, as if blessedly, terrifyingly bewitched,
Whatever the Romatics have dreamed about Elves."

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