I May Die Of Earthly Love, Or

You Feel On Your Lips A Kiss Fluttering, A Tiny Scrap Of Life.

To Whom Shall I Hire Myself Out? What Beast Should I Adore? What Holy Image Is Attacked? What Hearts Shall I Break? What Lies Shall I Uphold? In What Blood Tread?

But The Problem Is To Make The Soul Into A Monster

On The Blue Summer Evenings, I Will Go Along The Paths, And Walk Over The Short Grass, As I Am Pricked By The Wheat: Daydreaming I Will Feel The Coolness On My Feet. I Will Let The Wind Bathe My Bare Head. I Will Not Speak, I Will Have No Thoughts: But Infinite Love Will Mount In My Soul; And I Will Go Far, Far Off, Like A Gypsy, Through The Countryside - As Happy As If I Were A Woman. "sensation

The Wolf Howled Under The Leaves And Spit Out The Prettiest Feathers Of His Meal Of Fowl: Like Him I Consume Myself.