MAKE WHAT THEY CAN OF IT

Listen,
Aristius Fuscus;
it is not the quiver
bursting with arrows,
nor sudden spears,
nor certainly the warmth of
confident armor
that shields
a man …
Here is a wood
full of blue winds
and dead symbols;
full of white sounds,
hints out of China,
and clashing invisible flowers …
Why should I tremble?
Now let me pause …
now let me sing of you,
plangent and conquering …
with furious hair,
green and impalpable features,
and fluent caresses …
why should I tremble,
and stammer
like moonlight
caught on black branches …
Now like a fish
in the net of to-morrow
let my heart batten
on the thought of your face;
let my soul feed
on the red rind of passion,
softly … exulting.
Out of the hush
of the arches of night,
from the core of despair
let me remember
climate and javelins,
laughter and Lalage,
virtue and wolves …
And so forth …
Et cetera . . . . . .