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Tuesday, November 16, 2010



(The fantasia of a fallen gentleman on a
cold, bitter night.)

ONCE, in finesse of fiddles found I
     In the flash of gold heals on the
          hard pavement.
Now see I
That warmth's the very stuff of poesy.
Oh, God, make small
The old star-eaten blanket of the sky,
That I may fold it round me and in
     comfort lie.


If you're looking for analysis of this and/or the others of Hulme's poetry collected by Ezra Pound in Ripostes, I assembled my thoughts here.  If they're helpful, or if you've got questions, please leave a comment.

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