Little Poems in Prose

slumbering spirit is cradled by hot-house feel- ings. Muslin weeps before the windows and the bed; it spreads itself in snowy waterfalls. Upon this bed is couched the Idol, the Queen of Dreams. But how is she here? Who has brought her here? What magic power has in- stalled he on this throne of reverie and of pleasure? What does it matter?—There She is; I recognize Her. Look! See those eyes whose flame shoots across the twilight; those subtle and terrible Mirrors-of-Venus that I recognize by their terri- fying malice. They attract, they subjugate, they devour the glance of the rash man who contemplates them. I have studied them often, those black stars which compel curiosity and admiration. To what benevolent demon do I owe it that I am thus surrounded with mystery, with si- lence, with peace and with perfume? Oh bless- edness! what we ordinarily call Life, even in its happiest expansion, has nothing in common with this supreme life which I now hold, and which I taste minute by minute, second by second. No, there are no more minutes, there are no more seconds. Time has disappeared; it is Eternity which reigns, an eternity of delight.