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 upright tails and sacred bulls alternately—
 * in four tiers

lining the way to an old altar! Natives digging at old walls— digging me warmth—digging me
 * sweet loneliness—

high enamelled walls.

My second spring— passed in a monastery with plaster walls—in Fiesole on the hill above Florence.

My second spring—painted a virgin—in a blue aureole sitting on a three-legged stool, arms crossed— she is intently serious, and still watching an angel with coloured wings half kneeling before her— and smiling—the angel's eyes holding the eyes of Mary as a snake's holds a bird's. On the ground there are flowers, trees are in leaf.

But! now for the battle! Now for murder—now for the real thing! My third springtime is approaching!