Our squalid society rushed, Narcissus to a man, to gaze on its trivial image on a scrap of metal.
For the merchant, even honesty is a financial speculation.
I am a cemetery abhorred by the moon, In which long worms crawl like remorse.
Go then, a starveling girl With no perfume or pearls, Only your nudity O my beauty!
Those men get along best with women who can get along best without them.
Nature is a temple, where the living Columns sometimes breathe confusing speech; Man walks within these groves of symbols, each Of which regards him as a kindred thing.