The Bath I Bathe in the porcelain Of that loamy place, In the clay and in the roots, Lay my bones beneath the boughs.

II I would go there, Where the wild flowers Are threaded like families, To know that rusted metal’s grace Calls me beyond my dreariness, Where the long stems of reeds Weave through the water’s breath, And out of this silence The great heart does break.

• Ezra Pound