Why does the small child in the soiled-white imitation fur coat
Crawl in the very black gutter beneath the grape stand?
Why does the really handsome young woman approach me in Sackville Street
Undeterred by the manifest age of my trappings?
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‘Being no longer human, why should I
Men have I known and men, but never oneWas grown so free an essence, or becomeSo simply element as what I am.The mist goes from the mirror and I see.Behold! the world of forms is swept beneath-Turmoil grown visible beneath our peace,And we that are grown formless, rise above-Fluids intangible that have been men,We seem…
The jewelled steps are already quite white with dew,
And I let down the crystal curtainAnd watch the moon through the clear autumn.
This is another of our ancient loves.
Hath lacked a something since this lady passed;Hath lacked a something. ‘Twas but marginal.
For three years, out of key with his time,
Of poetry; to maintain ‘the sublime’In the old scene.Wrong from the start–No, hardly, but seeing he had been bornIn a half-savage country, out of date;Bent resolutely on wringing lilies from the acorn;Capaneus; trout for factitious bait;[idmen gar toi pant, hos eni Troiei]Caught in the unstopped ear;Giving the rocks small lee-wayThe chopped seas held him, therefore,…
I am a grave poetic hen
And to enhance my temperamentA little quiet begs.We make the yolk philosophy,True beauty the albumen.And then gum on a shell of formTo make the screed sound human.