“…This is no book,
Who touches this, touches a man,
(Is it night? Are we here alone?)
It is I you hold, and who holds you,
I spring from the pages into your arms—decease
calls me forth.
O how your fingers drowse me!
Your breath falls around me like dew—your pulse
lulls the tympans of my ears,
I feel immerged from head to foot,