– The young mother, deceased, descends the steps.
It’s she, the little dead girl, behind the roses.
What tedium, the hour of the ‘beloved body’ and ‘dear heart’!
Les illuminations full#
Ladies who stroll on terraces by the sea: many a girl-child and giantess, superb blacks in the verdigris moss, jewels arrayed on the rich soil of groves and the little thawed-out gardens – young mothers and elder sisters with looks full of pilgrimage, Sultanas, princesses with tyrannical costumes, little foreign girls and gently unhappy people.
Les illuminations free#
That idol without ancestors or court, black-eyed and yellow-haired, nobler than legend, Mexican and Flemish: his land insolent azure and green, skirts beaches named by the waves, free of vessels, with names ferociously Greek, Slav, Celtic.Īt the edge of the forest – flowers of dream chime burst, flare – the girl with orange lips, knees crossed in the clear flood that rises from the meadows, nudity shadowed, traversed and clothed by rainbows flowers, the sea. Rise, pond: – Foam, roll over the bridge and under the trees: – black drapes and organs – thunder and lightning rise and roll: – Waters and sadness rise and raise the Floods again.īecause since they abated – oh, the precious stones burying themselves and the opened flowers! – It’s wearisome! And the Queen, the Sorceress who lights her fire in the pot of earth, will never tell us what she knows, and what we are ignorant of. Then, in the burgeoning violet forest, Eucharis told me it was spring. Since then, the Moon’s heard jackals howling among the deserts of thyme – and pastoral poems in wooden shoes grumbling in the orchard. And the Hotel Splendide was built in the chaos of ice and polar night. The Mass and first communions were celebrated at the hundred thousand altars of the cathedral.Ĭaravans departed. Madame *** installed a piano in the Alps. In the big greenhouse that was still streaming, the children in mourning looked at the marvellous pictures.Ī door banged, and, on the village-green, the child waved his arms, understood by the cocks and weathervanes of bell-towers everywhere, under the bursting shower. In the soiled main street stalls were set, they hauled the boats down to the sea rising in layers as in the old prints.īlood flowed, at Blue-beard’s house – in the abattoirs in the circuses where God’s promise whitened the windows. Oh! The precious stones that hid, – the flowers that gazed around them. Louis-Antoine Froissart (French, 1815 - 1860), Getty Open Content ProgramĪs soon as the idea of the Flood was finished, a hare halted in the clover and the trembling flower bells, and said its prayer to the rainbow through the spider’s web. This work may be freely reproduced, stored and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose. Kline © Copyright 2002, 2008 All Rights Reserved
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