On the slope of the hill the angels whirl their woolen robes in
grasses of steel and emerald.
  Meadows of flame leap up to the top of the little hill.  On the
left, the earth of the ridge has been trampled by all the murder
and all the battles, and all the sounds of disaster flare up in
their orbit.  Behind the ridge on the right, the line of the
Orient, of progressions.
  And whereas the band, at the top of the picture, is made up of
whirling and leaping uproars of seashells and mortal nights.
  The flowering sweetness of stars and sky and the rest falls
across the slope, like a basket, before our faces, and makes the
abyss all flowers and blue beneath.