Facundo Martin > Recent Status Updates

Before each lucid panel fuming stood A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood, Each by a sacred tripod held aloft, Whose slender feet wide-swerv'd upon the soft Wool-woofed carpets: fifty wreaths of smoke From fifty censers their light voyage took To the high roof, still mimick'd as they rose Along the mirror'd walls by twin-clouds odorous.

But at the setting I must bid adieu To her for the last time. Night will strew On the damp grass myriads of lingering leaves, And with them shall I die; nor much it grieves To die, when summer dies on the cold sward. Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies, Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbour roses; My kingdom's at its death, and just it is That I should die with it

''Foulon who told my old father that he might eat grass when I had no bread to give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these breasts were dry with want!... Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my knees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! .... Give us the blood of Foulon...Rend Foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from him! ''