Proud yearning of the wind above the forest deeps, of a wind that vivifies each barrier that it leaps, perfumed with grain that 'neath its rule is bended low, prompted me all at once to leave this world and go to heaven, among the leaves down far-off vistas lost. Already, both my arms, 'gainst hoary trunks uptossed, I crucified, all myself to the tempest did resign, to Boreas whose pale arms like smoothest marble shine, to let myself depart with all the little trees -- But before me dropped the leaves. 'Twas dead calm. Not a breeze. Reclining at my feet mysterious herbage spread, softly. No single flower was missing from its place, and I seemed in woods serene to hear great Pan who said: "Behold, it is Paul Fort, the god of sunny days." Then, as my long, draped arms, too widely stretched, once more became my body's sheath, at that very instant, lo, I felt a pair of horns from out my forehead grow. |