Reset Forty-Three, Day Thirty-Five

[rejectomorph]

Strange sleeps and flawed memories, all the shattered days turning like a kaleidoscope's vivid fragments. I dreamed I was dreaming of remembering a remembered dream, and woke envisioning my mind like a fern fossilizing under layers of silt. Who will look on that stony map one day and see the sights I forgot, or surmise the scenes I failed to look at? Amazement is everywhere, in all unnoticed.




Sunday Verse

Sonnet

by Ezra Pound


If on the tally-board of wasted days
They daily write me for proud idleness,
Let high Hell summons me, and I confess,
No overt act the preferred charge allays.

To-day I thought what boots it what I thought?
Poppies and gold! Why should I blurt it out?
Or hawk the magic of her name about
Deaf doors and dungeons where no truth is bought?

Who calls me idle? I have thought of her.
Who calls me idle? By God's truth I've seen
The arrowy sunlight in her golden snares.

Let him among you all stand summonser
Who hath done better things! Let whoso hath been
With worthier works concerned, display his wares!