Looming against a snowy landscape, a titanic Being of Beauty. Whistlings of death and circles of soft music make this adored body rise, stretch and waver like a phantom; black and scarlet wounds burst in the splendid flesh. The very colours of life darken, dance, and disengage themselves around the Vision in progress. And shudders arise and grumble, and the deranged taste of these effects becoming charged with the deadly whistlings and raucous musics that the world, far behind us, sends out to our mother of beauty, – she backs away, draws herself up. Our bones are dressed in a new body of love!
O the ashen face, the escutcheon of horse’s mane, the arms of crystal! the cannon onto which I must throw myself amidst the confused combat of the trees with the light air!
