The Hippopotamus

The hippopotamus is not a moving thing He does not raise his thick brows Or pierce the night For as a flower breaks through dusk, So too does he overlook the past.

Now he swims unnoticed by grace, Large hands stroke his form Enfeebled and spent, he silences the song And the shadows in water stretch bent.

In the muddy banks of drying tide, He lingers with an echoing heart To consume all he ever desired, Well meandering, floating, late to depart.

To him, solid earth is far from here, Inaugurating the dream, A heart pacific, serene, Clear body poised over disdain to integers.

• TS Eliot