They have seen it through!
Theirs is the triumph,
And, beneath
The carved smile of the Mona Lisa
False teeth,
Rattle
Like machine guns,
In anticipation
Of food and platitudes.
Les Veilles Dames Sans Merci!
CHURCH-PARADE
The flattened sea is harsh and blue—
Lies stiff beneath—one tone, one hue,
While concertina waves unfold
The painted shimmering sands of gold.
Each bird that whirls and wheels on high
Must strangle, stifle in, its cry,
For nothing that's of Nature born
Should seem so on the Sabbath morn.
The terrace glitters hard and white,
Bedaubed and flecked with points of light
That flicker at the passers-by—
Reproachful as a curate's eye.
And china flowers, in steel-bound beds,
Flare out in blues and flaming reds;
Each blossom, rich and opulent,
Stands like a soldier; and its scent
Is turned to camphor in the air.
No breath of wind would ever dare