And he keeps listening to seas that love nothing but themselves.But maybe now he listens to nothing,stalled in forgetfulness and salt.

If ever we two had a soul, let our soul—keep on walking and leave us behind.

The bronze of the door is worthless, alas,to keep me from seeing her who comesby the walks of myrtles to search me outdrunk with hatred and crazed by fate.

If it's all been dream and deliriummay death ripen me in my dream.

The gods give, like twin flowers, power and ruin, memory and oblivion.

She loved only her lover and Iphigeniain the narrowness of her cold breast.

The past is falling to pieceslike the beggar with his clown-clothes . . .

Now what mattered to me no longer matters.

The night itself is riddled with her, wide with her, and alive with her.It seems that it has no wordor other traveler, no other secret sign.