of cool tears 
till 
the Ineffable 
cries, 
“Open your eyes. 
See 
wailing ones 
he 
is beautiful; 
he is an archangel 
the cross, skull-shod, 
Death is the cross of winged moons 
where hangs God.” 
JOHN BROOKS WHEELWRIGHT 
LUC 
UNPUBLI8HED FRAGMENT8 
LE DON 
T HE SUN vibrated upon the vines, clement king, and the 
red villages scintillated. O honey. Then came to bathe 
in the lava of the stream. Pyx of azure and of gold, for 
a god, shining and young, sound of flute and the treach 
erous welcome of the shadow. The sweet torture of this 
flame, when one can not be consumed by it and when everything 
is akindle with oneself .. . Day too pure. 
Luc remarked these things. His thoughts, flying away, made 
a little dust. It is at this moment that he realized in himself the 
entrance of grace. His heart hesitated a moment. In spite of 
himself a fruitful fullness spread through him, like water hurled 
from a floodgate. He no longer felt himSelf with precise boun 
daries. 
Then Luc was hungry. Hungry, physically hungry. 
Hungry in all his five senses. And miracle! this hunger was 
marvellously calm and marvellously surfeited. A slight drun 
kenness, tender light, burned within him. His body became 
clearer. An emanation of soul: one would say wings.