ABSTRACT
That sorrow o'er dead roses in her hands.
The Purple Valleys Far in the purple valleys of illusion I see her waiting, like the soul of music, With deep eyes, lovelier than cerulean pansies, Shadow and fire, yet merciless as poison; With red lips, sweeter than Arabian storax, Yet bitterer than myrrh.—O tears and kisses! O eyes and lips, that haunt my soul forever!
