Torches melt in the glare Set flame of the corner cook-stall, Blue agate casing the sky, a sputter of resin; The saffron sandal petals the narrow foot, Hymenaeus! Io Hymen, Io Hymenaee! Aurunculeia! The scarlet flower is cast on the blanch-white stone, Armaracus, Hill of Urania’s Son. Meanwhile So-Gioku: “This wind, sire, is the king’s wind, this wind is wind of the palace Shaking imperial water-jets.” And Ran-Ti, opening his collar: “This wind roars in the earth’s bag, it lays the water with rushes; “No wind is the king’s wind. Let every cow keep her calf.” “This wind is held in gauze curtains....” “No wind is the king’s....” The camel drivers sit in the turn of the stairs, look down to Ecbatan of plotted streets, “Danae! Danae! What wind is the king’s?” Smoke hangs on the stream, The peach-trees shed bright leaves in the water, Sound drifts in the evening haze, The barge scrapes at the ford. Gilt rafters above black water; three steps in an open field Gray stone-posts leading nowhither. The Spanish poppies swim in an air of glass. Père Henri Jacques still seeks the sennin on Rokku. Polhonac, As Gyges on Thracian platter, set the feast; Cabestan, Terreus. It is Cabestan’s heart in the dish. Vidal, tracked out with dogs ... for glamour of Loba; Upon the gilded tower in Ecbatan Lay the god’s bride, lay ever Waiting the golden rain. Et saave! But to-day, Garonne is thick like paint, beyond Dorada, The worm of the Procession bores in the soup of the crowd The blue thin voices against the crash of the crowd Et “Salve regina.” In trellises Wound over with small flowers, beyond Adige In the but half-used room, thin film of images, (by Stefano) Age of unbodied gods, the vitreous fragile images Thin as the locust’s wing Haunting the mind ... as of Guido ... Thin as the locust’s wing. The Centaur’s heel Plants in the earth-loam. THE FIFTH CANTO