Eleanor (she spoiled in a British climate) ‘Ελανδρος and Ελέπτολις, and poor old Homer blind, blind as a bat, Ear, ear for the sea-surge--; rattle of old men’s voices; And then the phantom Rome, marble narrow for seats “Si pulvis nullus....” In chatter above the circus, “Nullum excute tamen.” Then: file and candles, e li mestiers ecoutes; Scene--for the battle only,--but still scene, Pennons and standards y cavals armatz, Not mere succession of strokes, sightless narration, To Dante’s “ciocco,” the brand struck in the game. Un peu moisi, plancher plus bas que le jardin. Contre le lambris, fauteuil de paille, Un vieux piano, et sous le baromètre ... The old men’s voices--beneath the columns of false marble, And the walls tinted discreet, the modish, darkish green-blue, Discreeter gilding, and the panelled wood Not present, but suggested, for the leasehold is Touched with an imprecision ... about three squares; The house a shade too solid, and the art A shade off action, paintings a shade too thick. And the great domed head, _con gli occhi onesti e tardi_ Moves before me, phantom with weighted motion, _Grave incessu_, drinking the tone of things, And the old voice lifts itself weaving an endless sentence. We also made ghostly visits, and the stair That knew us, found us again on the turn of it, Knocking at empty rooms, seeking a buried beauty; And the sun-tanned gracious and well-formed fingers Lift no latch of bent bronze, no Empire handle Twists for the knocker’s fall; no voice to answer. A strange concierge, in place of the gouty-footed. Sceptic against all this one seeks the living, Stubborn against the fact. The wilted flowers Brushed out a seven year since, of no effect. Damn the partition! Paper, dark brown and stretched, Flimsy and damned partition. Ione, dead the long year, My lintel, and Liu Ch’e’s lintel. Time blacked out with the rubber. The Elysée carries a name on And the bus behind me gives me a date for peg; Low ceiling and the Erard and silver, These are in “time.” Four chairs, the bow-front dresser, The pannier of the desk, cloth top sunk in. “Beer-bottle on the statue’s pediment! “That, Fritz, is the era, to-day against the past, “Contemporary.” And the passion endures. Against their action, aromas; rooms, against chronicles. Smaragdos, chrysolitos, De Gama wore striped pants in Africa And “Mountains of the sea gave birth to troops,”