The House of Dust; a symphony

Conrad Potter Aiken

Capitolo 55

And he/she listens--I am pleased;  otherwise, alone,
I look at thin beads that brightly veer direct upward
From unknown depths,--my silver thoughts ascending;
Now saying this, now that, suggesting of all the things,--
Dreams and desires, velleity, regrets,
Weak ghosts of memory, strange recognitions,--
But all with a deep meaning:  this is me,
This is the shining holy secret me,
This silver-flown wonders, inconsistent,
This that sings ghost. . . .And feeling, I am heated.

     *     *     *     *     *

You see me moving himself/herself/itself, then as one whom stirs
Forever to the centre of his/her circle:
A circle filled with light.  And in him
Comes being protuberant forms from the obscurity, couples in distance gigantic,
Or it crowds again in dark. . . .A clock clearly works,
A flutters of firmly of gasoline-jet, light brooks through me;
Two church furnishes of bell, with alternate pulsation, strikes nine;
And through these things my pencil slightly pushes
To plot grey webs of lines on this clear page.
Falls of snow and fusions;  the eaves makes liquid music;
Line of wheel-footsteps of black the road snow-touch;  I turn
And it looks at an instant to the mean-dark gardens,
Where you elm-plant with trees skeletal they reach frozen gesture
Above unstable lamps,--with black flung of the branches
Against a sky of snow-full and bright grey-gold.
'Beauty!' I cry. . . .My feet stir on, and he/she takes me
Among dark walls, with plazas of orange for windows.
Beauty;  seen how someone mean-forgotten,
Remembered, with slow torment as one neglected. . .
Well, I am you frustrate;  life has struck me,
The thing that I have strongly grabbed turns to the obscurity,
And obscurity goes by bicycle my heart. . . .These skeletal elm-trees--
Tilting himself/herself/itself against that grey-gold snow filled sky--
Beauty! they says, and to the edge of the obscurity
Extends arm vain in a gesture frozen of protest. . .
A clock slightly works;  a flutters of firmly of gasoline-jet:
The pencil satisfies its shade on clear paper,
Bawls are elevated, a door is beaten.  The persons in love,
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