The gilded phaloi of the crocuses are thrusting at the spring air. Here is there naught of dead gods But a procession of festival, A procession, 0 Giulio Romano, Fit for your spirit to dwell in. Dione, your nights are upon us.
The dew is upon the leaf. The night about us is restless.
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the sky can barely grasp it
so the stars all help
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By Ezra Pound
The gilded phaloi of the crocuses
are thrusting at the spring air.
Here is there naught of dead gods
But a procession of festival,
A procession, 0 Giulio Romano,
Fit for your spirit to dwell in.
Dione, your nights are upon us.
The dew is upon the leaf.
The night about us is restless.
Reply
Reply
Reply
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