Devil. His hatred was his term of anguish.
Then the sun threw on the sky for him a red, red line—the red line of Triumph, Glory, Fame!
And afterward there was the blackness of Night, the blackness that is not tender, not gentle.
But black as our Night may be, nothing can take from us the memory of the red, red sky. "Memory is possession," and so the red sky we have with us always.
Oh, Devil, Fate, World—some one, bring me my red sky! For a little brief time, and I will be satisfied. Bring it to me intensely red, intensely full, intensely alive! Short as you will, but red, red, red!
I am weary—weary, and, oh, I want my red sky! Short as it might be, its memory, its fragrance would stay with me always—always. Bring me, Devil, my red line of sky for one hour and take all, all—everything I possess. Let
