THE EMBANKMENT, by T.E. Hulme

*

(The fantasia of a fallen gentleman on a

cold, bitter night.)

ONCE, in finesse of fiddles found I
          ecstacy,
     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.