the slope of the knoll angels

whirl their woolen robes

in pastures of emerald and steel.

Meadows of flame leap up to the summit of the little hill.

At the left, the mold of the ridge is trampled by all the homicides

and all the battles, and all the disastrous noises

describe their curve. Behind the right-hand

ridge, the line of orients and of progress.

And while the band above the picture is composed of the revolving

and rushing hum of seashells and of human nights,

The flowering sweetness of the stars and of the night

and all the rest descends, opposite the knol

l, like a basket,– against our face, and

makes the abyss perfumed and blue below.