CANTO VII.

Eleanor ( she spoiled in a British climate )

HELIANDROS

and Heletpolin, and poor old Homer blind,
'ELOA/SOS' 'ELETTOTONIS' blind as a bat,

Ear, ear for the sea-surge- ; rattle of old men's voices.
And then the phantom Rome, marble narrow for seats

"31 pulvis nullus erit"
The chatter above the circus, "Nullum tamen excute".
Then file and candles, e li mestiers ecoutes;
Scene for the battle only, but still scene,
Pennons and standards y cavals armatz,
Not meze succession of strokes, sightless narration,
And Dante's "cena", brands struck in the game.
Un peu moisï, plancher plus bas que le jardin.
"Contre le lambris, fauteil de paille,"
"Un vieux piano, et sous le barometre ....

The old men's voices, beneath the columns of false marble,
And the walls tinted discrete, the modish, darkish
green-blue,
Discreter gilding, and the panneled wood
Not present, but suggested, for the leasehold is
Touched with an imprecision ... about three squares;
The house a shade too solid, and the art

2

A shade off action, paintings a shade too thick.

And the great domed head, <u>con gli occhi onesti e tardi</u>
Moves before me & phantom with weighted motion
<u>Grave incessu</u> , drinking the tone of things,
And the old voice lifts itself

weaving an endless sentence.

We also made ghostly visits, and the stair
That knew us, found us again on the turn of it,
Knocking at empty rooms, seeking for buried beauty;
And the sun-tanned, gracious and well-formed fingers
Lift no latch of bent bronze, no Empire handle
Twists for the knocker's fall; no voice to answer.
A strange concierge, in place of the gouty-footed.

Sceptic against all this one BSR seeks the living,
Stubborn against the fact. The wilted flowers
Brushed out a seven year since, of no effect.
Damn the partition ! Paper, dark brown and stretched,
Flimsy and damned partition.

Ione, dead the long year,
My lintel, and Liu Ch'e's lintel.
Time blacked out with the rubber.

The Elysee carries a name on
And the bus behind me gives me a date for peg;
Low ceiling and the Erard and the silver ,
These in " time ". Four chairs, the bow-front dresser
The pannier of the desk, cloth top sunk in.

3.

" Beer-bottle on the statue's pediment !

" That, Fritz, is the era, today against the past,

" Contemporary ". And the passion endures.

Against their action, aromas. Rooms, against chronicles.

Smaragdos, chrysolitos, De Gama were striped pants in Africa

And " Mountains of the sea gave birth to troops "

Le vieux commode en acajou :

beer bottles of various strata,

BECAUSE OF THESE BEAUTIES

But is she as dead as Tyro ? In seven years ?

Ελέναιος, Ελαυδρος, Ελεπτολεις.

The sea runs in the beach-groove, shaking the floated pebbles,

Eleanor !

The scarlet curtain throws a less scarlet shadow ;

Lamplight at Buovilla, & quel remir,

And all that day

Nicea moved before me

And the cold gray air troubled her not

For all her naked beauty, bit not the tropic skin,

And the long slender feet lit on the curb's marge

And her moving height went before me,

We alone having being.

And all that day, another day :

Thin husks I had known as men,

Dry casques of departed locusts

speaking a shell of speech ...

Propped between chairs and table....

4.

Words like the locust-shells, moved by no inner being,
A dryness calling for death;

Another day, between walls of a sham Mycenian,
"Toc" sphinxes, sham-Memphis columns,
And beneath the jazz a cortex, a stiffness or stillness,

The older shell, varnished to lemon colour,
Brown-yellow wood, and the no colour plaster,
Dry professorial talk ...

now stilling the ill beat music,
House expulsed by this house, but not extinguished.

Square even shoulders and the & satin skin,
Gone cheeks of the dancing woman,

Still the old dead dry talk, gassed out
It is ten years gone, makes stiff about her a glass,
A petrifaction of air.

On The old room of the tawdry class asserts itself.
The young men, never !

Only the husk of talk.
O voi che Sicilia piccioletta barca,
Dido choked up with sobs for her Sicheus
Lies heavy in my arms, dead weight

Drowning, with tears, new Eros,
And the life goes one, mooning upon bare hills;
Flame leaps from the hand, the rain is listless,
Yet drinks the thirst from our lips,

solid as echo,

5

Passion to breed a form in shimmer of rain-blurr ;

But Eros drowned, drowned, heavy-half dead with tears
For dead Sicheus.

Life to make mock of motion :

For the husks, before me, move,

The words rattle : shells given out by shells.

The live man, out of lands and prisons,

shakes the dry pods,

Probes for old wills and friendships, and the big locust-casques
Bend to the tawdry table,

Bend to the tawdry table,
Lift up their spoons to mouths, put forks in cutlets,
And make sound like the sound of voices.

Lorenzaccio

Being more live than they, more full of flames and voices.

Ma si morisse !

Credesse caduto da se, ma si morisse.

And the tall indifference moves,

a more living shell,

Drift in the air of fate, dry phantom, but intact,

O Alessandro, chief and thrice warned, Watcher,

Eternal watcher of things,

Of things, of men, of passions.

Eyes floating in dry, dark air