Page:An Anthology of Modern Bohemian Poetry.pdf/52

48  That with a sculptor's splendid and tragical gesture, Kneading the sphere of his tractable clay, Transforms the secret of things in accord with his vision's splendour, In the torturing pang of creation, Ever void of content.

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Each second that passes, ever within our places In the mystic dance of the worlds We revolve in the cosmos. In the lustrous spheres of spirits we burn with a living Beauty. Around our heads, In aureoles Golden tresses are sparkling, Extended like resonant lassos In the ﬂight of the whirlwind.

Into our faces glowing in ecstasy, The ages breathe coldly And faint from the joy of our flight, By the sheen of a grievous pleasure o'erpowered, With a cry that unendingly soars, Harmony-laden, exulting, We sink, in our mystical dancing, And in our blood, as if buried in roses, We perish. 