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!