Beat, beat, whirr, thud, in the soft turf
to the little gallery over the gate,
between the towers, making a double
arch, not a patch, not a lost shimmer
of sunlight. They never speak to each
other; for 180 years almost nothing.
Then came the seen, thus the palpable.
Hot wind came from the marshes
in scaled invention or true artistry.
The prefaces, cut clear and hard in
some Wordsworthian, false-pastoral
manner. The limbo of chopped ice &
sawdust rusteth the craft & the crafts-
man, being divided, set out from color.
Mark Young, 2018
The Cantos, by Ezra Pound