Will you put your hand in mine pompous street-singer, and start on a quest with me? For men have cut down the woods where the laurel grew to build streets of frame houses, they have dug in the hills after iron and frightened the troll-king away; at night in the woods no hunter puffs out his cheeks to call to the kill on the hunting-horn. Now when the kites flaunt bravely their tissue-paper glory in the sunset we will walk together down the darkening streets beyond these tables and the sunset. We will hear the singing of drunken men and the songs whores sing in their doorways at night and the endless soft crooning of all the mothers, and what words the young men hum when they walk beside the river their arms hot with caresses, their cheeks pressed against their girls' cheeks. We will lean very close to the quiet lips of the dead and feel in our worn-out flesh perhaps a flutter of wings as they soar from us the untarnished songs. But the minstrel sings as the pennies clink: _I love the sound of the hunting-horns deep in the woods at night._ O who will go on a quest with me beyond all wide seas all mountain passes and climb at last with me among the imperishable branches of the yewtree, Ygdrasil, so that all the limp unuttered songs shall spread their great moth-wings and soar above the craning necks of the chimneys above the tissue-paper kites and the sunset above the diners and their dining-tables, beat upward with strong wing-beats steadily till they can drink the quenchless honey of the moon. _Place du Tertre_ X Dark on the blue light of the stream the barges lie anchored under the moon. On icegreen seas of sunset the moon skims like a curved white sail bellied by the evening wind and bound for some glittering harbor that blue hills circle among the purple archipelagos of cloud. So, in the quivering bubble of my memories the schooners with peaked sails lean athwart the low dark shore; their sails glow apricot-color or glint as white as the salt-bitten shells on the beach and are curved at the tip like gulls' wings: their courses are set for impossible oceans where on the gold imaginary sands they will unload their many-scented freight of very childish dreams.