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The Whirlpool (Introduction Only)

…man of purest white, an efflorescence. It is the hell of sterile passion glowing in the heart of the hell of desolation. So also is this book. The intricacy of faery pattern which the witch weaves is the flowered marble. We find such rime-webs as abaaab-babbba and AaBCcAaBCcAaBC and bAbAcBcBAcCDaADA, more exquisite than all the arabesques of the Alhambra. The limpidity of thought and expression alike is the aquamarine of the pool: "Like foam-flowers falling from the breasts of Sleep their Lotus-kiss is," languid as Sappho writhing to the breeze…