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But the wall is old；
It has known many days。
It is a Roman wall；
Left…over and forgotten。
Beyond the Cathedral Close
Yelp and mutter the discontents of people not mellow；
Not well…regulated。
People who care more for bread than for beauty；
Who would break the tombs of saints；
And give the painted windows of churches
To their children for toys。
People who say：
〃They are dead； we live！
The world is for the living。〃
Fools！ It is always the dead who breed。
Crush the ripe fruit； and cast it aside；
Yet its seeds shall fructify；
And trees rise where your huts were standing。
But the little people are ignorant；
They chaffer； and swarm。
They gnaw like rats；
And the foundations of the Cathedral are honeycombed。
The Dean is in the Chapter House；
He is reading the architect's bill
For the completed restoration of the Cathedral。
He will have ripe gooseberries for supper；
And then he will walk up and down the path
By the wall；
And admire the snapdragons and dahlias；
Thinking how quiet and peaceful
The garden is。
The old wall will watch him；
Very quietly and patiently it will watch。
For the wall is old；
It is a Roman wall。
The Cyclists
Spread on the roadway；
With open…blown jackets；
Like black； soaring pinions；
They swoop down the hillside；
The Cyclists。
Seeming dark…plumaged
Birds； after carrion；
Careening and circling；
Over the dying
Of England。
She lies with her bosom
Beneath them； no longer
The Dominant Mother；
The Virile but rotting
Before time。
The smell of her； tainted；
Has bitten their nostrils。
Exultant they hover；
And shadow the sun with
Foreboding。
Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window
What charm is yours； you faded old…world tapestries；
Of outworn； childish mysteries；
Vague pageants woven on a web of dream！
And we； pushing and fighting in the turbid stream
Of modern life； find solace in your tarnished broideries。
Old lichened halls； sun…shaded by huge cedar…trees；
The layered branches horizontal stretched； like Japanese
Dark…banded prints。 Carven cathedrals； on a sky
Of faintest colour； where the gothic spires fly
And sway like masts； against a shifting breeze。
Worm…eaten pages； clasped in old brown vellum； shrunk
From over…handling； by some anxious monk。
Or Virgin's Hours； bright with gold and graven
With flowers； and rare birds； and all the Saints of Heaven；
And Noah's ark stuck on Ararat； when all the world had sunk。
They soothe us like a song； heard in a garden； sung
By youthful minstrels； on the moonlight flung
In cadences and falls； to ease a queen；
Widowed and childless； cowering in a screen
Of myrtles； whose life hangs with all its threads unstrung。
A London Thoroughfare。 2 A。M。
They have watered the street；
It shines in the glare of lamps；
Cold； white lamps；
And lies
Like a slow…moving river；
Barred with silver and black。
Cabs go down it；
One；
And then another。
Between them I hear the shuffling of feet。
Tramps doze on the window…ledges；
Night…walkers pass along the sidewalks。
The city is squalid and sinister；
With the silver…barred street in the midst；
Slow…moving；
A river leading nowhere。
Opposite my window；
The moon cuts；
Clear and round；
Through the plum…coloured night。
She cannot light the city；
It is too bright。
It has white lamps；
And glitters coldly。
I stand in the window and watch the moon。
She is thin and lustreless；
But I love her。
I know the moon；
And this is an alien city。
Astigmatism
To Ezra Pound
With much friendship and admiration and some differences of opinion
The Poet took his walking…stick
Of fine and polished ebony。
Set in the close…grained wood
Were quaint devices；
Patterns in ambers；
And in the clouded green of jades。
The top was of smooth； yellow ivory；
And a tassel of tarnished gold
Hung by a faded cord from a hole
Pierced in the hard wood；
Circled with silver。
For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane。
His wealth had gone to enrich it；
His experiences to pattern it；
His labour to fashion and burnish it。
To him it was perfect；
A work of art and a weapon；
A delight and a defence。
The Poet took his walking…stick
And walked abroad。
Peace be with you； Brother。
The Poet came to a meadow。
Sifted through the grass were daisies；
Open…mouthed； wondering； they gazed at the sun。
The Poet struck them with his cane。
The little heads flew off； and they lay
Dying； open…mouthed and wondering；
On the hard ground。
〃They are useless。 They are not roses；〃 said the Poet。
Peace be with you； Brother。 Go your ways。
The Poet came to a stream。
Purple and blue flags waded in the water；
In among them hopped the speckled frogs；
The wind slid through them； rustling。
The Poet lifted his cane；
And the iris heads fell into the water。
They floated away； torn and drowning。
〃Wretched flowers；〃 said the Poet；
〃They are not roses。〃
Peace be with you； Brother。 It is your affair。
The Poet came to a garden。
Dahlias ripened against a wall；
Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature；
And a trumpet…vine covered an arbour
With the red and gold of its blossoms。
Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets。
The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias；
And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground。
Then he severed the trumpet…blossoms from their stems。
Red and gold they lay scattered；
Red and gold； as on a battle field；
Red and gold； prone and dying。
〃They were not roses；〃 said the Poet。
Peace be with you； Brother。
But behind you is destruction； and waste places。
The Poet came home at evening；
And in the candle…light
He wiped and polished his cane。
The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers；
And made the jades undulate like green pools。
It played along the bright ebony；
And glowed in the top of cream…coloured ivory。
But these things were dead；
Only the candle…light made them seem to move。
〃It is a pity there were no roses；〃 said the Poet。
Peace be with you； Brother。 You have chosen your part。
The Coal Picker
He perches in the slime； inert；
Bedaubed with iridescent dirt。
The oil upon the puddles dries
To colours like a peacock's eyes；
And half…submerged tomato…cans
Shine scaly； as leviathans
Oozily crawling through the mud。
The ground is here and there bestud
With lumps of only part…burned coal。
His duty is to glean the whole；
To pick them from the filth； each one；
To hoard them for the hidden sun
Which glows within each fiery core
And waits to be made free once more。
Their sharp and glistening edges cut
His stiffened fingers。 Through the smut
Gleam red the wounds which