‘Tis but a vague, invarious delight <br />As gold that rains about some buried king. <br /> <br />As the fine flakes, <br />When tourists frolicking <br />Stamp on his roof or in the glazing light <br />Try photographs, wolf down their ale and cakes <br />And start to inspect some further pyramid; <br /> <br />As the fine dust, in the hid cell <br />Beneath their transitory step and merriment, <br />Drifts through the air, and the sarcophagus <br />Gains yet another crust <br />Of useless riches for the occupant, <br />So I, the fires that lit once dreams <br />Now over and spent, <br />Lie dead within four walls <br />And so now love <br />Rains down and so enriches some stiff case, <br />And strews a mind with precious metaphors, <br /> <br />And so the space <br />Of my still consciousness <br />Is full of gilded snow, <br /> <br />The which, no cat has eyes enough <br />To see the brightness of.<br /><br />Ezra Pound<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/middle-aged-2/
