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Poem from the Autobiography of an Old Landowner, Who Died Recently
He died before he died Melting the orange seems about to drop, Distil away and sweeten silence more, Silence already sweet; heavy and dark The orange grove where thrives this patient dark. The heron's regal state mysterious Is out of fashion nowadays. His breast Is gentle ermine, and his long thin crest Hangs needle-like. Fantastic pride is his. But no one knows or cares. And in such scenes As these my part has so far been' Largely enacted, wholly generated: The love of horses, urge to shape, hot blood And. all my acts and lassitudes. My friends Who know me know that this has been. Yet I and all those like me stand still now Lonely as any bell that utters music And cannot know the reason why; the world (The individual lost, the mass retained, The war which splits the thunderbolt in two) Discovers nonsense not the core of light, And men become more stupid as they fight.