Ardoise rimed richly—ah, richly and rarely rimed!—with framboise.

As for the future, Les Imagistes, the descendants of the forgotten school of 1909, have that in their keeping.

I refrain from publishing my proposed Historical Memoir of their forerunners, because Mr Hulme has threatened to print the original propaganda.

E.P.

[1] Mr Pound has grossly exaggerated my age.—T.E.H.

[1]

AUTUMN A touch of cold in the Autumn night— I walked abroad, And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge Like a red-faced farmer. I did not stop to speak, but nodded, And round about were the wistful stars With white faces like town children. MANA ABODA Beauty is the marking-time, the stationary vibration, the feigned ecstasy of an arrested impulse unable to reach its natural end. Mana Aboda, whose bent form The sky in archèd circle is, Seems ever for an unknown grief to mourn. Yet on a day I heard her cry: "I weary of the roses and the singing poets— Josephs all, not tall enough to try."    ABOVE THE DOCK Above the quiet dock in mid night, Tangled in the tall mast's corded height, Hangs the moon. What seemed so far away Is but a child's balloon, forgotten after play. THE EMBANKMENT  (The fantasia of a fallen gentleman on a cold, bitter night.)   Once, in finesse of fiddles found I ecstasy, In the flash of gold heels on the hard pavement. Now see I That warmth's the very stuff of poesy. Oh, God, make small The old star-eaten blanket of the sky, That I may fold it round me and in comfort lie. CONVERSION Lighthearted I walked into the valley wood In the time of hyacinths, Till beauty like a scented cloth Cast over, stifled me. I was bound Motionless and faint of breath By loveliness that is her own eunuch. Now pass I to the final river Ignominiously, in a sack, without sound, As any peeping Turk to the Bosphorus. 

Beauty is the marking-time, the stationary vibration,

the feigned ecstasy of an arrested impulse unable to

reach its natural end.

The sky in archèd circle is,

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