In the ides of March,
    I went along into that wintry wandering lost,
    But found a sort of new way—
    Something I cannot so much tell you;
    It’s not something in the telling
    As it is always in the feeling.


    Nothing that I could stop,
    Nothing that I wanted to stop,
    Nothing that seemed stoppable.


    The movement, the want to move,
    The putting down of the foot—
    That feeling, I could not escape it.


    It was there with me:
    It guided me, and from it,
    I took to the naked floor,
    From naked soles slipping.


    I am just lulling, lulling in this word—
    And I’ve never had this word before:
    It thundering by leopard paws,
    These fired persephones.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.