On the slope of the knoll angels whirl their woolen robes in pastures of emerald and steel.
Meadows of flame leap up to the summit of the little hill. At the left, the mold of the ridge is trampled by all the homicides and all the
battles, and all the disastrous noises describe their curve. Behind the right-hand ridge, the line of orients and of progress.
And while the band above the picture is composed of the revolving and rushing hum of seashells and of human nights,
The flowering sweetness of the stars and of the night and all the rest descends, opposite the knoll, like a basket,-- against our face, and
makes the abyss perfumed and blue below.