We shall not dwell forever in these yellow lands, our pleasance …

The Summer vaster than the Empire hangs over the tables of space several terraces of climate. The huge earth rolls on its surface over-flowing its pale embers under the ashes—Sulphur colour, honey colour, colour of immortal things, the whole grassy earth-taking light from the green sponge of a lonely tree the sky draws its violet juices.

A place of stone of quartz! Not a pure grain in the wind’s barbs. And light like oil.—From the crack of my eye to the level of the hills I join myself, I know the stones gillstained, the swarms of silence in the hives of light; and my heart gives heed to a family of crickets …

Milk camels, gentle beneath the shears, sewn with mauve scars, let the hills march from under the facts of the harvest sky—let them march in silence over the pale incandescence of the plain; and kneeling at last, in the fantasy of dreams, there where the peoples annihilate themselves in the dead powder of earth.