<poem> I have been a spendthrift— Dropping from lazy fingers Quiet coloured hours, Fluttering away from me Like oak and beech leaves in October.
I have lived keenly and wastefully, Like a bush or a sun insect— Lived sensually and thoughtfully, Loving the flesh and the beauty of this world— Green ivy about ruined towers, The out-pouring of the grey sea, And the ecstasy Of a pale clear sky at sunset.
I have been prodigal of love For critics and for lonely places; I have tried not to hate mankind; I have gathered sensations Like ripe fruits in a rich orchard …
All this is gone; There are no leaves, no sea, No shade of a rich orchard, Only a sterile, dusty waste, Empty and threatening.
I long vainly for solitude And the lapse of silent hours; I am frantic to throw off My heavy cloth and leather garments, To set free my feet and body; And I am so far from beauty That a yellow daisy seems to clutch my heart With eager searching petals, And I am grateful even to humility For the taste of pure, clean bread.