313

Mont Sainte Victoire, 1886

The valley is a broad expanse of fields,
Here and there lonely barns bask in a
Golden dusk, their shadows lengthening
Across the fallow. The darkness of water
Winds before the ancient walls of a town,
Where blue and purple roofs join their
Diverse surfaces in one undulating wave.
A viaduct runs thinly over an indentation
In the land, seemingly in no relation to it :
A white, insubstantial chain of vertebrae.
Beyond, the holy name rises, blue-grey,
Into a smoky and paling sky, the lines of
Its ridge fallen darkly through it, innocent
Of all trees, waiting for the long darkness
To obscure its broad front. The sky lights
With roselike shapes and dim fluctuations.
Before this all you stand, solitary pine,
Holding your contortions before the world.