Mystic, a poem by Arthur Rimbaud

On the sloping bank, angels swirl their woollen robes on pastures of steel and emerald.
 Fields of flame leap to the rounded hilltop. On the left the ridge-mould is trampled by every murder, every battle, and every sound of disaster spins out its arc. Behind the ridge to the right the line of ascent, of progress. 
And, while the frieze at the top of the picture is formed of the twisting and leaping murmur of the conches of human seas and nights,
 The flowery sweetness of stars and sky and the rest descends opposite the embankment, like a basket – against our face, and creates the abyss flowering and blue below.

Illuminations XXI, Arthur Rimbaud