The Devil pulls the strings which make us dance;
We find delight in the most loathsome things;
Some furtherance of Hell each new day brings,
And yet we feel no horror in that rank advance.
ยท
The Devil pulls the strings which make us dance;
We find delight in the most loathsome things;
Some furtherance of Hell each new day brings,
And yet we feel no horror in that rank advance.
“O ivory, delicate hands!
O face that hovers
Between ‘To-come’ and ‘Was,’
Ivory thou wast,
A rose thou wilt be.”
Ezra Pound