Little Poems in Prose

Since you love rest so much while contem- plating movement, would you like to come and live in Holland, the land that brings happiness? Perhaps you would find amusement in that country, whose picture you have so often ad- mired in museums. What do you say to Rotter- dam, you who love forests of masts, and the ships moored alongside the houses? My soul remains dumb. Would Batavia smile on you perhaps more sweetly? There we should find the spirit of Europe wedded to the beauty of the tropics. Not a word. Can my soul be dead? Are you then come to such a point of ener- vation that you take pleasure only in your un- happiness? If so, let us away to those coun- tries that are the emblem of death. I have it, poor soul, we will pack for Tornéo. Let us go farther still, to the far end of the Baltic, still farther from life, if it is possible. Let us set up our camp at the Pole! There the sun strikes the earth obliquely, and the slow alternation of light and night suppresses variety and in- creases monotony—that better half of nothing. There we may take prolonged baths of shadow, while, to amuse us, the Aurora Borealis will send us from time to time its rosy sheaves, like the reflection of the fire-works of Hell.