Juliet sat down by the cypress trees and took off her clothes. The contorted
cactus made a forest, hideous yet fascinating, about her. She sat and offered
her bosom to the sun, sighing, even now, with a certain hard pain, against the
cruelty of having to give herself.
But the sun marched in blue heaven and sent down his rays as he went. She felt
the soft air of the sea on her breasts, that seemed as if they would never
ripen. but she hardly felt the sun. Fruits that would wither and not mature,
Soon, however, she felt the sun inside them, warmer that ever love had been,
warmer than milk or the hands of her baby. At last, as last her breasts were
like long white grapes in the hot sun.
She slid off all her clothes and lay naked in the sun, and as she lay she
looked up through her fingers at the central sun, his blue pulsing roundness,
whose outer edges streamed brilliance. Pulsing with marvellous blue, and
alive, and streaming white fire from his edges, the sun ! He faced down to her
with his look of blue fire, and enveloped her breasts and her face, her
throat, her tired belly, her knees, her thighs and her feet.
She lay with shut eyes, the colours of rosy flame through her lids. It was too
much. She reached and put leaves over her eyes. Then she lay again, like a
long white gourd in the sun, that must ripen to gold.
She could feel the sun penetrating even into her bones; nay, farther, even
into her emotions, her thoughts. The dark tensions of her emotion began to
give way, the cold dark clots of her thoughts began to dissolve. She was
beginning to feel warm right through. Turning over, she let her shoulders
dissolve in the sun, her loins, the backs of her thighs, even her heels. And
she lay half stunned with wonder at the thing that was happening to her. Her
weary, chilled heart was melting, and, in melting, evaporating.