To Violet

Basil Bunting

with prewar poems
These tracings from a world that's dead
Take for my dust-smothered Pyramid.
Count the sharp study and long toil
As pavements laid for worms to soil.
You, without knowing it, might tread
The grass where my foundation's laid;
Your, or another's, house be built
Where my mossed, weathered stones lie spilt;
And this unread memento be
The only lasting part of me.