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
Vision in 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!