BDC

There stands that Mute into whose ear the ages have whispered their secrets— There stands that Mute with lusting eye […]

Death-lights on the scud and the baying of wind in the rigging, the hail on my cheek— Tantara! Tantaro! The

To Carlo de Fornaro. Medusa! I go toward you smiling, serene; my will is granite to your stare, and I