Friday, March 18, 2016


Just as  Hannah Moore promised me,
Reading popular fiction debased my taste,
Slackened my intellectual nerve,
Let down my understanding and --
I wonder Hannah knew this –
Setting my fancy loose, sent it gadding
Among low and mean objects
Where, I have to admit the life
Seems to suit it. It seldom comes home
(My taste, my intellectual nerve
And my understanding still live with me)
But when it does, it has feathers in its hair
And it always brings presents --
The geisha it found in Montmartre,
The rag and clockwork imagination
Which works well enough in dry weather.

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