Little Poems in Prose

by the hurtling clouds. Not the peaceful and discreet moon that visits the slumber of chaste men, but the moon, torn from heaven, con- quered, yet in revolt, that Thessalian witches force by their strong spell to dance on the af- frighted grass. Beneath her narrow brow dwell tenacious will and lust of prey; and yet on this disquiet- ing countenance, where the mobile nostrils sniff up the unknown and the impossible, there breaks forth with ineffable grace the laughter of a great mouth red and white and delicious; as who should dream of the miracle of a su- perb flower blossoming on volcanic soil. There are women who fill one with desire to conquer them and to enjoy them, but she makes me wish to die by inches underneath her eyes.