Such work can be the mischief of an hour.

This drunken-looking doll without a face

Was lovely Florentino. This was grace

And virtue smiling on the face of Power.

Shattered, that slim Toledo-tempered spine!

Hollow, the chrysalis, his gentle hand,

From which those wide imperial moths were fanned

Each in its hushed miraculous design!

He was the bee, with danger for his rose!

He died the sudden violence of Kings,

And from the bullring to the Virgin goes

Floating his cape. He has no need for wings.