But it is
threaded
with gold and powdered with scarlet beads.
Imagists
It spouts
like yellow wheat from the gargoyles, coils round the head of Saint John,
and aureoles him in light. It leaps into the night and hisses against the
rain. The Cathedral is a burning stain on the white, wet night.
Boom! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it begin to scorch.
Boom! The bohemian glass on the _étagère_ is no longer there. Boom! A
stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains. The old lady cannot
walk. She watches the creeping stalk and counts. Boom! --Boom! --Boom!
The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet of
silver.
But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads. The
city burns. Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run the
flames. Over roofs, and walls, and shops, and stalls. Smearing its gold on
the sky the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and lisps and
chuckles along the floors.
The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower flickering
at the window. The little red lips of flame creep along the ceiling beams.
The old man sits among his broken experiments and looks at the burning
Cathedral. Now the streets are swarming with people. They seek shelter and
crowd into the cellars. They shout and call, and over all, slowly and
without force, the rain drops into the city. Boom! And the steeple crashes
down among the people. Boom! Boom, again! The water rushes along the
gutters.
like yellow wheat from the gargoyles, coils round the head of Saint John,
and aureoles him in light. It leaps into the night and hisses against the
rain. The Cathedral is a burning stain on the white, wet night.
Boom! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it begin to scorch.
Boom! The bohemian glass on the _étagère_ is no longer there. Boom! A
stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains. The old lady cannot
walk. She watches the creeping stalk and counts. Boom! --Boom! --Boom!
The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet of
silver.
But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads. The
city burns. Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run the
flames. Over roofs, and walls, and shops, and stalls. Smearing its gold on
the sky the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and lisps and
chuckles along the floors.
The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower flickering
at the window. The little red lips of flame creep along the ceiling beams.
The old man sits among his broken experiments and looks at the burning
Cathedral. Now the streets are swarming with people. They seek shelter and
crowd into the cellars. They shout and call, and over all, slowly and
without force, the rain drops into the city. Boom! And the steeple crashes
down among the people. Boom! Boom, again! The water rushes along the
gutters.
