It's bitter, yet sweet, on wintry nights, near to the fire that crackles and fumes, listening while, far-off, slow memories rise to echoing chimes that ring through the gloom. ...
Sometimes it seems my blood spurts out in gobs As if it were a fountain's pulsing sobs; I clearly hear it mutter as it goes, Yet cannot find the wound from which it flows. ...
Around me roared the nearly deafening street. Tall, slim, in mourning, in majestic grief, A woman passed me, with a splendid hand Lifting and swinging her festoon and hem; ...
You'd entertain the universe in bed, Foul woman; ennui makes you mean of soul. To exercise your jaws at this strange sport Each day you work a heart between your teeth. Your eyes, illuminated like boutiques...