CASSANOVA AT ANTIBES.

The fleet brought

A novel play-boy to Septentrion's town -

A Corsican

out of the fleet.

Septentrion placuit

One of Petronius' boys,

Each generation of children

Repeats its toys.

(A doll
a little idol
idullon.)

It was said:

The planetary spirits turn on us at last.

Their ordinary function seems to be
to knit up the past -

Whip-stitch over and under the procession
on the earth-sphere.

Clio's dance. Ants. Bees. Crabs.

Here the moon keeps her hands off the tides,

Pulls bodies about,

Draws Cassanova, the sailor,

the pleasing name

2.

to where Septentrion pleased.

Host for his ghost Sergey Sergeyitch,
moon-baby, spawn of the cold light.

Where there is no flight of waters, the moon
enters flesh -

- the out-of-work-moon

Draws out and throws up the Riviera,
Live surfe.

It's a long way from the planets

To Septentrion,

It's a long time since his ballets
to 'modern comfort' here:

Hôtel the inside of a shell, voices through hollow
plaster rung off marble through empty rooms.

The old tower a square flower, a finger-point to
peace.

2.

Or that the wave-light feet
Touch each stone of the dry river -
(- Better seed than the dragon's teeth - )
Raise up boys for joy
For the best bread - bed.

Or later so much as the ghost of an armed man.