And since, then, I have bathed me in the poem of the sea, steeped in stars and latescent, mastering the green azure where, flotation pale and ravished, a pensive drowned person sometimes descends; where, suddenly staining the nuances of blue, frenzied and slow rhythms beneath the glinting red of day, stronger than alcohol, vaster than your lyres, the bitter redness of love ferments.
Who knows if genius is not one of your virtues.
Torment of the garden of delight
In which everything flourishes...
The sky rains without ending, though nothing agitates it; it rains, it rains, shepherdess! on the stream....
The stream has its dominical repose; not a barge up stream, downstream.
Vespers chime in the town; the banks are deserted, not an isle.
Passes a boarding-school group, o poor flesh! Several already have on their winter muffs.