How happy I was the day I told the young Blandina of three-legged giraffes …

In the conscious world, the great clouds

Potter in the summer sky.

It is a province—

Of ugly, subconscious time, in which

There is no beautiful eye

And no true tree,

There being no subconscious place,

Only Indyterranean

Resemblances

Of place: time’s haggard mongrels.

Yet in time’s middle deep,

In its abstract motion,

Its immaterial monsters move,

Without physical pedantry

Or any name,

Invisible, they move and are,

Not speaking worms, nor birds

Of mutable plume,

Pure coruscations, that lie beyond

The imagination, intact

And unattained,

Even in Paris, in the Gardens

Of Acclimatization,

Ona holiday.

The knowledge of bright-ethered things

Bears us toward time, on its

Perfective wings.

We enjoy the ithy oonts and long-haired

Plomets, as the Herr Gott

Enjoys his comets.