It does no good to speak of the big, blue bush

Of day. If the study of his images

Is the study of man, this image of Saturday,

This Italian symbol, this Southern landscape, is like

A waking, as in images we awake,

Within the very object that we seek,

Participants of its being. It is, we are.

He is, we are. Ah, bella! He is, we are,

Within the big, blue bush and its vast shade

At evening and at night. It does no good.

Stop at the terraces of mandolins,

False, faded and yet inextricably there,

The pulse of the object, the heat of the body grown cold

Or cooling in late leaves, not false except

When the image itself is false, a mere desire,

Not faded, if images are all we have.

They can be no more faded than ourselves.

The blood refreshes with its stale demands.