Who can pick up the weight of Britain,

Who can move the German load

Or say to the French here is France again?

Imago. Imago. Imago.

It is nothing, no great thing, nor man

Of ten brilliancies of battered gold

And fortunate stone. It moves its parade

Of motions in the mind and heart,

A gorgeous fortitude. Medium man

In February hears the imagination’s hymns

And sees its images, its motions

And multitude of motions

And feels the imagination’s mercies,

In a season more than sun and south wind,

Something returning from a deeper quarter,

A glacier running through delirium,

Making this heavy rock a place,

Which is not of our lives composed …