Is it the dirt, the squalor,
the wear of human bodies,
and the dead faces of our neighbours?
the wear of human bodies,
and the dead faces of our neighbours?
Imagists
One step farther down or up,
and why?
But up is harder. Down!
Down to this white blur;
it gives before me.
Me?
I extend all ways:
I fit into the walls and they pull me.
Light?
Light! I know it is light.
Stillness, and then,
something moves:
green, oh green, dazzling lightning!
And joy! this is my room;
there are my books, there the piano,
there the last bar I wrote,
there the last line,
and oh the sunlight!
A parrot screeches.
ACCIDENT
Dear one!
you sit there
in the corner of the carriage;
and you do not know me;
and your eyes forbid.
Is it the dirt, the squalor,
the wear of human bodies,
and the dead faces of our neighbours?
These are but symbols.
You are proud; I praise you;
your mouth is set; you see beyond us;
and you see nothing.
I have the vision of your calm, cold face,
and of the black hair that waves above it;
I watch you; I love you;
I desire you.
There is a quiet here
within the thud-thud of the wheels
upon the railway.
There is a quiet here
within my heart,
but tense and tender. . . .
This is my station. . . .
FRAGMENT
. . .
