Beautious Being

		Against the snow of Being a high-statured Beauty. Whistlings of death and 
		circles of secret music make the adored body, like a specter, rise, 
		expand, and quiver; wounds of black and scarlet burst in the superb 
		flesh.-- Life's own colors darken, dance, and drift around the Visionin 
		the making.-- Shudders rise and rumble, and the delerious savor of these 
		effects clashing with the deadly hissings and the hoarse music that the 
		world, far behind us, hurls at our mother of beauty,-- she recoils, she 
		rears up. Oh, our bones are clothed with an amorous new body.

		O the ashy faces, the crined escutcheon, the crystal arms! the cannon on 
		which I am to fall in the melee of trees and of light air!


		The Bridges

		Skies the gray of crystal. A strange design of bridges, some straight, 
		some arched, others descending at oblique angles to the first; and these 
		figures recurring in other lighted circuits of the canal, but all so long 
		and light that the banks, laden with domes, sink and shrink. A few of 
		these bridges are still covered with hovels, others support polls, 
		signals, frail parapets. Minor chords cross each other and disappear; 
		ropes rise from the shore. One can make out a red coat, possibly other 
		costumes and musical instruments. Are these popular tunes, snatches of 
		seignioral concerts, remnants of public hymns? The water is gray and 
		blue, wide as an arm of the sea. A white ray falling from high in the sky 
		destroys this comedy.


		Flowers

		From a golden step,-- among silk cords, green velvets, gray gauzes, and 
		crystal disks that turn black as bronze in the sun, I see the digitalis 
		opening on a carpet of silver filagree, of eyes and hair.

		Yellow gold-pieces strewn over agate, mahogany columns supporting emerald 
		domes, bouquets of white satin and delicate sprays of rubies, surround 
		the water-rose.

		Like a god with huge blue eyes and limbs of snow, the sea and sky lure to 
		the marble terraces the throng of roses, young and strong.


		Dawn

		I embraced the summer dawn.

		Nothing yet stirred on the face of the palaces. The water is dead. The 
		shadows still camped in the woodland road. I walked, waking quick warm 
		breaths; and gems looked on, and wings rose without a sound.

		The first venture was, in a path already filled with fresh, pale gleams, 
		a flower who told me her name.

		I laughed at the blond wasserfall that tousled through the pines: on the 
		silver summit I recognized the goddess.

		Then, one by one, I lifted up her veils. In the lane, waving my arms. 
		Across the plain, where I notified the cock. In the city, she fled among 
		the steeples and the domes; and running like a beggar on the marble 
		quays, I chased her.

		Above the road near a laurel wood, I wrapped her up in gathered veils, 
		and I felt a little her immense body. Dawn and the child fell down at the 
		edge of the wood.

		Waking, it was noon.