I know, I thought, it's late with at least 20 minutes before I drop off. Perfect to start reading that Ezra Pound collection that's been sitting there two years. Never mind what they say about his politics, I'll read him for the poetry and filter out the other stuff. Here's the first poem I read:
The GardenOh. Dear. I don't suppose he's being hugely ironic. Who's the woman, Ayn Rand?
Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall
She walks by the railings of a path in Kensington Gardens,
And she is dying piece-meal of a sort of emotional anaemia.
And round about there is a rabble
Of the filthy, sturdy and unkillable infants of the very poor.
They shall inherit the earth.
In her is the end of breeding.
Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.
She would like some one to speak to her,
And is almost afraid I will commit that indiscretion.
Still, I shall persevere and hope it doesn't give me nightmares.