There is a fountain for the tears, Among the trees, the Steed of the Moon, Where cloud shadows burn at midnight. The feet of the wind rustle above, While flowers scatter into silence, And in the dark, despair takes its slow turn, A revulsion, houses the heart under twilight. Bring together all the colors, to stay, Each hue lets the story unfold. In the silent hour of no next. Only when the dews arise you shall see, Looming the unsaved beauty of this night.

• Ezra Pound