I worship you, O proud and taciturn,
As I do night’s high vault; O sorrow’s urn,
I love you all the more because you flee
And seem, gem of my nights, ironically
To multiply the weary leagues that sunder
My arms from all infinity’s blue wonder.
I skirmish and I climb to the attack,
I, a worms’ chorus on a corpse’s back,
O fierce cruel beast, I cherish to the full
The very chill that makes you beautiful.
Jacques LeClercq, Flowers of Evil