Nature is a temple where living pillars sometimes let confused words issue; man passes there through forests of symbols watching him with friendly gaze.
Like long echoes blended in distance to deep, dim unity, vast as night and clear as day, the perfumes, colors and sounds answer each other.
The flesh is sad, alas! and I have read all the books.
To fly yonder! I feel that the birds are drunk
At being among the unknown foam and the heavens....
An autumn strewn with stains of redness....
And you were the sobbing whiteness of lilies....
I bring you the child of an Idumean night....
His neck will shake off this white agony....
The dream, in a heliotrope robe, and her thought on her fingers, with loosened girdle, passes, lightly grazing souls with her cloud train, to the extinct rhythm of a music of other times.
In the lingering fragrance of an evening of the last days.
The roses of the west shed their leaves on the stream; and, in the pale emotion of the falling evening, is evoked an autumnal park where, on a bench, dreams my youth, already sober as a widow.