Proserpine and the dark black place

Beauty on an ass-cart

Sitting on five sacks of laundry

That wd. have been the road by Perugia

That leads out to San Piero.

Eyes brown topaz,

over brown sand,

The white hounds on the slope,

Glide of water, lights and the prore,

Silver beaks out of night,

Stone, bough over bough, lamps fluid in water,

Pine by the black trunk of its shadow

And on hill black trunks of the shadow

The trees melted in air.

“The loss of form through aimlessness, through moral slither, through the continued use of form without content, or by influences hostile to the organic nature of a form is a metamorphosis that is seedless, a stasis.”

Having units of measure at hand,

We stand churlish at a new path and

Think it fine new rising action

To run amuck into Lethe’s silver shadow

And declaim the appalling peal of a

Refurbished bell sounding

In the chastened steeple

Trees melt in the air, for sure,

And this limpid bidding of the long dead

We stoop to praise anew