Count Juilan - pg. 118

the melancholy tinkle of sheep bells can be
heard in the distance: a shepherd boy is singing:
close at hand, the bees, the hermitage, the river
gorge, the roar of the water eternally rushing
through the deep canyon
hiding in a little grove, at the edge of a little
rustic trail, you survey for the last time the
points marking out the rigorous coordinates of
this dead-still landscape: a motionless stork,
a bare elm, a chaste oak, a few gnarled scraggly
bushes: a little old lady astride an ass passes by and
says good afternoon: your fierce burst of laughter
dies away in the conventlike silence of twilight