Who ran, marked with electric half-moons,
Gangplank queen escorted by black seahorses,
When julys with their hard thrusts collapsed
Ultramarine skies into hot weeping holes;

I who trembled, sensing from fifty leagues the groaning
Heat of Behemoths and deep Maelstroms,
Eternal spinner of blue stillnesses,
Sorry antique parapets of Europe!

I saw the astral archipelagos! And the islands
Whose delirious skies are open to the drifter:
“In these endless nights do you sleep and exile yourself,
Million birds of gold, O strength-to-be?”