Saturday, 20 February 2010

And through these things my pencil pushes softly


You see me moving, then, as one who moves
Forever at the circle of his circle:
A circle filled with light. And into it
Come bulging shapes from darkness, loom gigantic,
Or huddle in dark again... A clock ticks clearly,
A gas-jet steadily whirs, light streams across me;
Two church bells, with alternate beat, strike nine;
And through these things my pencil pushes softly
To weave grey webs of lines on this clear page.


Conrad Aiken, Palimpsest: A deceitful portrait from House of Dust

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