*
Beauty is the marking-time, the stationary
vibration, the feigned ecstasy of an arrested im-
pulse unable to reach its natural end.
MANA ABODA, whose bent form
The sky in archéd circle is,
Seems ever for an unknown grief
to mourn.
Yet on a day I heard her cry :
" I weary of the roses and the singing
poets--
Josephs all, not tall enough to try."
*
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.
Beauty is the marking-time, the stationary
vibration, the feigned ecstasy of an arrested im-
pulse unable to reach its natural end.
MANA ABODA, whose bent form
The sky in archéd circle is,
Seems ever for an unknown grief
to mourn.
Yet on a day I heard her cry :
" I weary of the roses and the singing
poets--
Josephs all, not tall enough to try."
*
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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