Warped... gland-dry... With spine askew And body shrunken into half its space... Well-used as some cracked paving-stone... Bearing on his grimed and pitted front A stamp... as of innumerable feet.
We are old, Old as song. Before Rome was Or Cyrene. Mad nights knew us And old men's wives. We knew who spilled the sacred oil For young-gold harlots of the town.......
They pass through the great iron gates - Men with eyes gravely discerning, Skilled to appraise the tunnage of cranes Or split an inch into thousandths - Men tempered by fire as the ore is...
I see you, refulgent ones, Burning so steadily Like big white arc lights... There are so many of you. I like to watch you weaving - Altogether and with precision Each his ray -...