My love, do you recall the object which we saw, That fair, sweet, summer morn! At a turn in the path a foul carcass On a gravel strewn bed, Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman, Burning and dripping with poisons, Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way Its belly, swollen with gases.

I should like the fields tinged with red, the rivers yellow and the trees painted blue. Nature has no imagination.

Where ever I am not is the place where I am myself.

To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.

The world only goes round by misunderstanding.

And over your unconsecrated head you'll hear the howling wolves lament their fate and yours the livelong year.

It is this admirable and immortal instinct for beauty which causes us to regard the earth and its spectacles as a glimpse, a correspondence of the beyond.