The rustling of the silk is discontinued,
Dust drifts over the court-yard,
There is no sound of footfall, and the leaves
Scurry into heaps and lie still,
And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them:
A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.
Dust drifts over the court-yard,
There is no sound of footfall, and the leaves
Scurry into heaps and lie still,
And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them:
A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPQmse00qcNfnT1CjxPsckAv-ZMHTU0DXvDsxcP-WaGcGYh74gjI4dkFL9AQWit5RJkE_B8i6icRl62VHdkmvSXricoDEy1wk_quzgdTVrNU6wGOwzWDm_xuS20n63tjuR93ZeqxOqnydjAFoe4E2CG63Xi3ILDtAmphxJFLLTtYG0NhMFCBnSGJgVGs/s1600/0080-Ezra%20Pound.png)
Post a Comment