Full with frets I die, but not slain by you.
My chest drains itself, painlessly.
Is all this not blood? Oh, Lord--it's dew!
The dawn, weeping, washes over me.

In vain you beg, in vain you ache,
in vain you've opened your wrecked heart wide.
Perhaps in heaven the rainclouds quake
because we both have cried?

They remained silent, while the bronze tolling passed over their heads so powerfully that they seemed to hear it in the very roots of their hair like a quiver of their flesh.

In faith I hear a whisper in the air as it sweeps:
secrets sparkling from the waters unto the shore;
but the wind does not stir upon the deeps,
the poets' mandolas play no more.

Radian. The prisoner's name is Radiana.
Who is keeping her prisoner?
Time, Stelio. Time is guarding the doors with his scythe and his hour-glass, as in all those old prints.

He followed the glances of some of them like a ray of love directed at a woman seated somewhere, engrossed in her own thoughts, made languorous by secret delights and softened in some impure way, with a snow-white face in which her mouth opened like a hive damp with honey.

It was like a Stygian plain, like a vision of Hades: a land of shadows, vapours and water. Everything was going misty and disappearing like spirits. The moon was enchanting and pulling at the plain just as she enchants and pulls at the sea, drinking all that vast earthly dampness from the horizon with her silent, insatiable throat.

The woman bent down to pick up the fallen pomegranate from the grass. It was ripe, it had burst open in the fall, stained her white dress. The vision of the laden barge, the pale island, the flowery meadow returned to her loving spirit along with the Creator's words: 'This is my body...Take and eat.

The heat of his night time fever was being brushed away entirely by the breeze as the light mists evaporated. The same process that was happening around him, was happening within him too. He was being reborn with the morning.

Within a Hell of godless emptiness
submit yourself ever more to sleep's spell.
All is a dream, all is nothingness:
the flower of the world is the asphodel.

The sun is gone; but the Day--still bending
over the mountains, loosens a last flower from her plait.
And the sky seems now a higher and holier thing.

Hold me, O Night, with motherly affection,
While the wan earth wakes with a misty yawn.
By my blood will be born the dawn
and from my fleeting dream--the undying sun!

That which at twilight had appeared to be a silvery sea-god's palace, a structure of twisted sea-shapes, was now a temple built by the cunning genies of Fire.