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42 ARIADNE.at a line of the poem nowall the scene comesback to me.AsIread, the scorching passion, like a sandwindthat burns and passes; the hollowlove, thateveninits first fresh vows was not sincere;thecruel autopsis of a dead desire,the weary contemptof human nature; the slow voluptuousand yetindifferent analysis of the woman's lovelinessand of the amorouscharm that could nomore last than lasts the hectic flash of the skyat evening time — they all seemed to cut into myvery fleshlike stripes.Iseemed to hear her doom in them, theletters seemed stamped in fire.Iread it as a man reads a death warrant,seeing from beginning to end, as it were, inone flash of horrible comprehension. It toldme no more thanIknew, indeed; and yet itseemed to kill all hope in me. Because thisbook was freshly written, and it told me thatthe poet of it knew nothing of love save itsbrutality and its satiety: and how as a lovercould he give anymore than he knew?It phrenziedme. It seemed to me asifIsaw