My soul is a child

Albert Samain

My soul is a child in a parade robe

Who reflects on itself, eternal and majestic,

To the big mirror deserted from an old Escurial,

Like a forgotten gallery in the roads.

By foot of the armchair, laying with dignity,

Two greyhounds of Ecosse with melancholy eyes

Hunt, when he pleases, the symbolic fools/beasts

In the forest of Enchanted dreams.

His favorite page, who is called Naguere,

Reads him glamorous poems half way,

However not moving, a tulip to fingers,

She waits to die in mystery.

The park around her extends her foliage,

Her marble, her basins, her banisters and ballisters,

And, grave, she intoxicates to the illustrated dreams

That possess for us the noble horizons.

She is the resigned, and sweet, and without surprise,

Knows too much for struggling for all that is fatal,

And feels, despite natural born smirks,

Responsive to the pity like the sea breeze.

She is the resigned, and sweet in her sobbing,

More somber only when she evokes in song

What somber armada to the eternal message,

And so much to the beautiful hopes asleep in the streams.

Of the nights too much heavy crimson where her pride sighs,

the portraits of Van Dyck in beautiful fingers long and pure,

Pale in black velvet on the gold aged from the seas,

In their grand large airs defunct the well dreams of the influence.

The old gold mirages are unruly in her mourning,

And in the visions where her boredom slips,

Suddenly— celebrity or sun—a ray that hits

Illuminates in her all the rubies of pride.

But in her sad smiles she calms some fevers;

And, fearing the mob with tumults of fear,

She listens to the life—from afar—like the ocean…

And the secret she makes sounds on her lips.

Never moved from a shudder the pale water of her eyes

Where sits the cloth Espirit from the dead cities;

And for the rooms, where without the sounds turning the doors,

She goes, enchanted with the mystery of words.

The vain water of fountains of water falls low in waterfalls (cascades),

And, pale at the crisscross, a tulip of fingers,

She is there, reflected in the mirrors of the former time,

Like a galley that forgets the harbor.

My soul is a child in a parade dress.

This is a poem I translated. Some of it may be "lost in translation" along with my small explication.
It was romantic that the speaker likened a lover to his soul.I did not really like how the poem changed subjects to the point where I was confused over who he was talking about (He may have done this to perplex the reader purposely). I am convinced that he relied too much upon imagery (even though that is the point of the poem) to get a point across that does not exist. He is in love with a woman (perhaps himself), and that is all that is apparent. Still, this was one of the more perceptible ones that was true to the movement.