No more phrases, Swenson: I was once

A hunter of those sovereigns of the soul

And savings banks, Fides, the sculptor’s prize,

All eyes and size, and galled Justitia,

Trained to poise the tables of the law,

Patientia, forever soothing wounds,

And mighty Fortitudo, frantic bass.

But these shall not adorn my souvenirs,

These lions, these majestic images.

If the fault is with the soul, the sovereigns

Of the soul must likewise be at fault, and first.

If the fault is with the souvenirs, yet these

Are the soul itself. And the whole of the soul, Swenson,

As every man in Sweden will concede,

Still hankers after lions, or, to shift,

Still hankers after sovereign images.

If the fault is with the lions, send them back

To Monsieur Dufy’s Hamburg whence they came.

The vegetation still abounds with forms.