They are piston-rods; they are cranes, hydraulic presses, powder-magazines:
But though my body be as beautiful as a hill crowned with flowers
I will despise it and make it obey me ...
Is the old love dead?
Then I shall await the new,
To embrace it more sturdily and passionately than ever the old;
And break it under the white force of my laughter
Until it lies passive in my arms.
There is nothing in me but renewal;
If my friend bow his head over me I soon surprise him with shouts of joy: