‘Tis bad enough, in man or woman,
To steal a goose from off a common;
But surely he’s without excuse
Who steals the common from the goose.
‘Tis bad enough, in man or woman,
To steal a goose from off a common;
But surely he’s without excuse
Who steals the common from the goose.
“The faint damp wind that, ere the even, blows
Piling the west with many a tawny sheaf,
Then when the last glad wavering hours are mown
Sigheth and dies because the day is sped;
This wind is like her and the listless air
Wherewith she goeth by beneath the trees,
The trees that mock her with their scarlet stain.”
Ezra Pound | “Canzon: The Yearly Slain”