“
Now reading
Dry Gold
Inside my threaded ear
I hear what is not here
Or there or anywhere:
A grinding as of saws
Through boards of burnished time;
A scratching as of paws
Upon a gilded stair
They never learnt to climb.
Inside my tunnelled eye
I see Greek laurel lie
Unfathomable, cold:
See, yes, and hate to see
Its execrable sheen
Shamming eternity
With gloss too densely green
And long abolished gold.
Inside my deep-drilled mouth
I dread the taste of drouth
Which summer's penury
Has processed for my need
From goldenrod, bright hay.
You cry the mind is free,
The years, the year, still young... ?
Across my palate speed
Moist scatterings of May:
They barely wet my tongue.
FRANCIS GOLFFING