The particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pencil sharpened at one end, dwarfs the imagination, makes logic a butterfly, offers a finality that sends us spinning through space, a fixity the mind could climb forever, a revolving mountain, a complexity with a surface of glass: the gist of poetry. _D. C. al fin._ 2 There is no thing that with a twist of the imagination cannot be something else. Porpoises risen in a green sea, the wind at nightfall bending the rose-red grasses and you—in your apron running to catch—say it seems to you to be your son. How ridiculous! You will pass up into a cloud and look back at me, not count the scribbling foolish that put wings to your heels, at your knees. 3 Sooner or later   as with the leaves   forgotten the swinging branch long since   and summer: they scurry before a wind on the frost-baked ground—have no place to rest—somehow invoke a burst of warm days   not of the past   nothing decayed: crisp summer!—neither a copse for resurrected frost eaters   but a summer removed   undestroyed   a summer of dried leaves scurrying with a screech, to and fro in the half dark—twittering, chattering, scraping. Hagh! * * * * * _Seeing the leaves dropping from the high and low branches the thought rises: this day of all others is the one chosen, all other days fall away from it on either side and only itself remains in perfect fulness. It is its own summer, of its leaves as they scrape on the smooth ground it must build its perfection. The gross summer of the year is only a halting counterpart of those fiery days of secret triumph which in reality themselves paint the year as if upon a parchment, giving each season a mockery of the warmth or frozeness which is within ourselves. The true seasons blossom or wilt not in fixed order but so that many of them may pass in a few weeks or hours whereas sometimes a whole life passes and the season remains of a piece from one end to the other._ THE END. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Kora in Hell: Improvisations, by William Carlos Williams