Soul's a moment's melody (As Mallarme reported). Each breath is every sigh recorded, One tear is all the sea. Lucid glycerins distill, intend, All God may mean by being: Loving nearly to the pain of seeing, Forgiving even the end. Less than Time attempts is this "I"-- Burnt between the matchstick's start And pumiced embers morosely blown-- Condensed intense in each spark of eye. It is a malady a moment, This soul--and then, neant.