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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