More from Jean Cocteau
A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.
A Call to Order (1926)The day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.
“Postambule” in La Fin du Potomac (1939)- Les Enfants Terribles translation by Rosamond Lehmann (1929)




