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 Grin at my inarticulate impotence

And so fall back on—apathy!

The bridge has three curved spans,

Is made of weathered stones,

And rests upon two diamond-pointed piers—

Is picturesque.

(I have not lost all touch and taste for life,

See beauty just as keenly, relish things.)

The water here is black and specked with white;

Under that tree the shallows grow to brown,

Light amber where the sunlight straggles through—

But yet, what colour is it if you watch the reeds

Or if you only see the trees' reflection?

Flat on the surface rest the lily leaves

(Some curled up inwards, though, like boats)

And yellow heads thrust up on fine green throats.

Two—three—a dozen—watch now—demoiselle flies

Flicker and flutter and dip and rest

Their beryl-green or blue, dark Prussian blue, frail wings

On spits and threads of water-plant.

Notice all carefully, be precise, welcome the world.

Do I miss these things? Overlook beauty?

Not even the shadow of a bird

Passing across that white reflected cloud.

And yet there's always something else—

The way one corpse held its stiff yellow fingers

And pointed, pointed to the huge dark hole

Gouged between ear and jaw right to the skull …