As the fine dust, in the hid cell beneath Their transitory step and merriment, Drifts through the air, and the sarcophagus Gains yet another crust Of useless riches for the occupant, So I, the fires that lit once dreams Now over and spent, Lie dead within four walls And so now love Rains down and so enriches some stiff case, And strews a mind with precious metaphors,
And so the space Of my still consciousness Is full of gilded snow,
The which, no cat has eyes enough To see the brightness of."
Ezra Pound
FISH OF THE FLOOD
Fish of the flood, on the bankèd billow Thou layest thy head in dreams; Sliding as slides thy shifting pillow, One with the streams Of the sea is thy spirit.
Gean-tree, thou spreadest thy foaming flourish Abroad in the sky so grey; It not heeding if it thee nourish, Thou dost obey, Happy, its moving.
So, God, thy love it not needeth me, Only thy life, that I blessèd be.
Emilia Stuart Lorimer