C HINA

Thickly green is the moss on the corroded roof-tiles of this hall,
Loud, loud, the cry of the wind striking and moving the hinges of the old doors,
Silver as evening mist the spiders' webs spun about the corners.

They broke their hearts here, bending over the pen-brushes,
They tore their hearts upon the glittering words of the T'ang poets,
They went mad, babbling Confucius and Mencius to the cold clouds passing above an open window.

All this they did to wear a violet coat and a belt-clasp of agate stones set in rubies.
Now through the windy hall sucks a cadence of falling seas,
Seas withdrawn along an ancient shore,
Backward seas
Turned,
Running in great strides upon a bold and distant continent.