The Lost Glove Is Happy.

I Shall Be Dumped Where The Weed Decays, And The Rest Is Rust And Stardust

I Think She Always Nursed A Small Mad Hope.

The Clumsiest Literal Translation Is A Thousand Times More Useful Than The Prettiest Paraphrase.

A Thousand Years Ago Five Minutes Were Equal To Forty Ounces Of Fine Sand. Outstare The Stars. Infinite Foretime And Infinite Aftertime: Above Your Head They Close Like Giant Wings, And You Are Dead.

But That Mimosa Grove-the Haze Of Stars, The Tingle, The Flame, The Honey-dew, And The Ache Remained With Me, And That Little Girl With Her Seaside Limbs And Ardent Tongue Haunted Me Ever Since-until At Last, Twenty-four Years Later, I Broke Her Spell By Incarnating Her In Another.