Here are fruits, flowers, leaves and branches, and here is my heart which beats only for you.

I like this word decadent; all shimmering and purple and gold.

Your soul is a chosen landscape Where charming masked and costumed figures go Playing the lute and dancing and almost Sad beneath their fantastic disguises. All sing in a minor key Of all-conquering love and careless fortune They do not seem to believe in their happiness And their song mingles with the moonlight. The still moonlight, sad and beautiful, Which gives the birds to dream in the trees And makes the fountain sprays sob in ecstasy, The tall, slender fountain sprays among the marble statues.

London, black as crows and noisy as ducks, prudish with all the vices in evidence, everlastingly drunk, in spite of ridiculous laws about drunkenness, immense, though it is really basically only a collection of scandal-mongering boroughs, vying with each other, ugly and dull, without any monuments except interminable docks.

Take eloquence and wring its neck.

Here are fruits, flowers, leaves and branches, and here is my heart which beats only for you.

A vast black sleep falls over my life sleep, all hope sleep, all desire.