. . . be absolute moderne.

What an old maid I'm getting to be. lacking the courage to be in love with death!

In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.

But the problem is to make the soul into a monster

Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed.

Then you'll feel your cheek scratched... A little kiss, like a crazy spider, Will run round your neck... And you'll say to me : "Find it !" bending your head - And we'll take a long time to find that creature - Which travels a lot.

It was the voice of mad seas, roaring immense,/ That shattered your infant breast, too soft, too human.