It is the sea;--calm sheet. And the great tide with distant rumbling
has receded.... The wave returns, wallowing in its noise. Hearest thou
the clawing of the night crabs.
It is the drained Styx: Diogenes, lantern in hand, unceremoniously
arrives. Perverse poets angle along the black stream: their hollow
skulls serve as boxes for worms.
It is the field: to glean impure lint falls the whirling flight of
hideous harpies; the gutter rabbit, on the watch for rodents, flees the
sons of Bondy, nocturnal vintagers.
It is death: the policeman lies dead. On high, love takes a siesta,
sucking the meat with heavy hand where the extinguished kisses leave a
red patch. Alone is the hour. Listen. Not a dream stirs.
It is life: listen, the lively spring sings the eternal song on the
head of a sea-god drawing green naked limbs on the bed of the Morgue
... and the great open eyes.