“Please pale hot, please cover rose, please acre in the red stranger, please butter all the beefsteak with regular feel faces.”
The little one is ill, the little one will die. The one who gave us sight, who locked up the obscurities in forests of firs, who dried up the streets after the storm. He did have, he had an accommodating stomach, he bred the mildest climate in his bones and made love to the belfries.
The little one is ill, the little one will die. Now he holds the world by one end and the bird by those feathers which the night brings to him. They will robe him in a rich robe, on the order of a basket, its background of gold, embroidered with gold dust, and a chin-strap with tassels of good will, and confetti in his hair. The clouds announce that he has only two hours more. At the window a needle registers the tremors and digressions of his agony. In their hiding places of sugared lace, the pyramids bow deeply, and the dogs hide themselves in riddles — majesties do not like to be seen crying. And the lightning-rod? Where is His Honour the lightning-rod?
He was good. He was kind. He never whipped the wind nor squelched the mud unless it was necessary. And never did he retire into a deluge. But he will die. Is it then nothing at all to be small?”