From the Pound Cantos: CENTO XXXI
The smell of hay under the olive-
trees. In the half-light, the tower
like a patron of the arts, decked
all in green, pigment flakes from the
stone. Forked branch-tips, flaming
as if with lotus. The god stood by
me, fearing no bondage nor the
bounds of deepest water. The peach-
trees shed bright leaves in the water.
Those leaves are full of voices. Caught
up in their cadence a man of no for-
tune & with a name to come. Clouds
bow over the lake. For sacrifice, a
young boy loggy with vine-must.