Enters this church. toward which The Expectant stutter(upon artificial limbs, with faces like defunct geraniums) VII Paris;this April sunset completely utters utters serenely silently a cathedral before whose upward lean magnificent face the streets turn young with rain, spiral acres of bloated rose coiled within cobalt miles of sky yield to and heed the mauve of twilight(who slenderly descends, daintily carrying in her eyes the dangerous first stars) people move love hurry in a gently arriving gloom and see!(the new moon fills abruptly with sudden silver these torn pockets of lame and begging colour)while there and here the lithe indolent prostitute Night,argues with certain houses VIII will out of the kindness of their hearts a few philosophers tell me what am i doing on top of this hill at Calchidas, in the sunlight? down ever so far on the beach below me a little girl in white spins,tumbles;rolling in sand. across this water,crowding tints:browns and whites showing,the dotting millions of windows of thousands of houses--Lisboa. Like the crackle of a typewriter,in the afternoon sky. goats and sheep are driven by somebody along a curve of road which eats into a pink cliff back and up leaning out of yellowgreen water. they are building a house down there by the sea,in the afternoon. rapidly a reddish ant travels my fifth finger. a bird chirps in a tree,somewhere nowhere and a little girl in white is tumbling in sand Clouds over me are like bridegrooms Naked and luminous (here the absurd I; life, to peer and wear clothes. i am altogether foolish, i suddenly make a fist out of ten fingers voices rise from down ever so far-- hush. Sunlight, there are old men behind me I tell you;several,incredible,sleepy IX but observe;although once is never the beginning of enough, is it(i do not pretend to know the reason any more than.)But look:up-- raising, hoisting, a little perhaps that and this, deftly propping on smallest hands the slim hinging you --because it’s five o’clock and these(i notice)trees winterbrief surly old gurgle a nonsense of sparrows, the cathedral shudders blackening; the sky is washed with tone now for a moon to squat in first darkness --a little moon thinner than memory faint -er than all the whys which lurk between your naked shoulderblades.--Here comes a stout fellow in a blouse just outside this window, touching the glass boxes one by one with his magic stick(in which a willing bulb of flame bubbles) see